Dj Bo, Yung Charles, Original backwards og cause Bo about that go (So let’s go)

Imagine pitched in a pitched ditch this: A found mound of brown broken feathers unfettered from where they settled, dishevelled, over the metal meddling to see a sight unsettling, once threatening twice fly the unencumbered threat of the night sky, neognathea, what else can I say It was Tyto. Tyto. Tyto.

(Chorus)

On the ground I see there Tyto, he was just fourteen though. Shot down by a poacher, and I approach, get closer, this soldier of the evening who I can still see breathing, heart beating, beak screeching giving me shifty eyes as something within me cries. Looking at its white plume and ruminating over how to subsume its pain as its beak bawks and breaks bone from the sound it is tearing off its wing, between looks it looks away safe to say ashamed of its lame infirmity, hiding beneath its wing, deep, diaphragmatic moans I glance a stone, thinking to euthanise its youthful eyes from the pain it knows and still beak tweaking under its bespoke cloak, it’s hateful eyes spoke (Kill me) It didn’t thrill me to propel, in doing so quell, the flat bottomed stone to crush his skull and skeleton, a mercy killing that cast, that sudra, stopped any pain. At the time I saw no matter in the factor that the torn feathers were brown rather than the white coat of Tyto. Tyto. Tyto.

(Chorus)

Tyto, Tee Total, Me mogul, Owl Moghulis, valour ain’t a factor. I gathered in retrospect after lifting the stone that ended tyto that he wasn’t in need o’ help. Between the blood, wings, other retched things, I retched to see what I did bring, not to be too curd, but to see two birds, tight the white owl and his prey, a little brown finch fared fowl in the bowel of the not brown owl. Fulfilling the idiom of the two birds and the single stone. Fully the idiot killing the two birds with the single stone. The owl unharmed but damned by my excessive recessive desire for massive ire, I are to blame for all that transpired. Why’re owls skulls so thin, in chagrin I question, not to take nor break under the weight of weighty slate slammed then slain, tyto, tyto, tyto, it was an accident, I didn’t think you wouldn’t die. You did die by my overeager hand. I misconstrued the whole affair, your majestic body flattened, I can’t act like this never happened. Let this make up for my sins, my poem, this beat though, it’s all for you…tyto.

End.