You sit and you sing
in your gilded cage.
watching with wary eyes
as I sit on the sill outside,
cold and huddled down;
just a dirty, downtrodden pigeon.
Nothing like you.

Chirping for attention
and the lies you’re fed,
you dare to judge.
Sing that success
is a cage like yours.
Scoff that I choose instead
to be outside in the cold.

But I say the joke is on you,
my feathered friend.
You may sit and you may sing
but I can fly away, to find my own way.
Feel the sun on my face,
not the reflection
from a gilded cage.

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