Feet made of feathers
He takes flight across the cement air.
Dodging bullets meant to clip his wings
He soars through the forest of tenements to find a new nest.
It's hunting season,
And he's lost enough of his flock to poachers.
He’s seen the trail of tail feathers leading to their coops.
It’s as if they were shed so they could find their way back home.
Branches in the ghetto were better than bars in prison,
At least those caged songs could harmonize freedom
Its hunting season.
Even the ones that managed to fly away were maimed.
Shell wounds stitched shut with promises of rehabilitation
Burst back open
Lies never hold up under pressure,
Insurance was never meant for brown birds,
It's hunting season.
And the concrete jungle houses the most game.
That’s probably why his people are becoming an extinct breed.
12 shots too many would put anything on the endangered species list.
Maybe if he flaps hard enough, he could become an eagle and soar above the storm.
Escape to Oz and ask the wizard for a bulletproof gizzard
Make Dorothy’s dad run rather than stand his ground
Its hunting season
And the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness has a clause
The preyed upon aren’t meant to succeed
How can they when they’re out gunned?
At least I don’t think skittles can shoot back.
If they could I’m sure they would aim for the noose
That’s been around their neck for over 300 hundred years
Maybe then they would be able to spread their wings without their neck being broken
Clipped wings still kill birds.
How can you catch the worm when you’re killed for trying?
Its hunting season,
Baby chicks are being stolen.
Their bodies become notches on the belt of men that wear blue.
I’m starting to understand why some religions don’t eat pig.
They take pride in doing the dirty work and eating whatever they can.
God was trying to warn us of their evil.
It’s hunting season.
Even those without a license can kill.