The Peacock don’t do no dancing

The Peacock chose each step the width of its gait and turn of its foot mapped in thought Pondered, planned then placed Executed with precision as a conscious claw carved its sculpted mullet

It lurked socially of an evening Opting for sweet and sober Pecking at dry roasted peanuts and the company of strangers Scoffing at those who drank from ponds and coughing politely It never spread its wings in public They were for show

It wrote poetry to woo the birds Scratching the ground as faux tears flowed into dirt Sometimes it believed it's own lies and wept at the beauty of it's plumes and ornate scribblings Then composed itself and scrubbed under its claws Twice

Never did it flock with the crows The dirty birds that crowed out loud Squawking thought and fighting in pubs or parks But circled the edges eyes flitting for mirrors or the female of the species The peacock struts its life but certainly don't dance

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