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My Ol' Man Martin once told me,
"Ain't nothing mo' humble
than a turned cheek boy.
But don't ever let someone turn that cheek bloody."
And that's where I remained
Immersed in the culture of humility.
Even when they destroyed our nest
As they stole our home,
I left my cheek open for palms.
And then Ol' Purple Martin sang his last song
As his cheek turned left and right
Until the vertebrae in his neck severed
The blue horned Starling
Stood over his corpse
as his children starved.
As our cheeks dripped
Stained a rustic red,
And we became your Avitrol.
One by one you fell
As we found corn for our blistered nest.
Officer down at the intersection of Battles and Oak.