If I had wings

If I had wings
I might eat a lot of prunes
And shit from a great height

If I had wings
I might learn to preen
With my teeth

If I had wings
I might have to learn to sew
Because none of my shirts would fit

If I had wings
I might spread my feathers in the rain
To shimmer liquid light

rain feather

If I had wings
And the feathers were pure white
I might dye them to match my socks

If I had wings
Moulting might make me hungry and tired
And more cross than my period

If I had wings
I would fold them round you
And hold you warm against my heart

If I had wings
I would want them on my shoulders
Not my arse

butt-wings

(This piece of foolery was inspired by the topic secondborn had to write a poem about and the simultaneous appearance, as he was telling me, of the above trousers.)

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