(suddenly nothing is as it was — where are you now, orpheus? wasn’t it always the two of us, weren’t we birds of a feather?)
hey, little songbird, let me guess. he’s some kind of poet — and he’s penniless. give him your hand, he’ll give you his hand-to-mouth. he’ll write you a poem when the power’s out. hey, why not fly south for the winter? hey, little songbird, look all around you, see how the vipers and vultures surround you. they’ll take you down, they’ll pick you clean, if you stick around such a desperate scene.