A mockingbird is not a nightingale,
Although he also sings his song by night,
With varied voice the world he will assail,
In hopes a mate may on his branch alight.

His repertoire of stolen melodies
He recapitulates without a blush,
And serenades through darkened hours with ease,
No matter how much one desires hush.

Do lady mockingbirds adore the noise
Of car alarms and mobile telephones?
Or does he hope to chase off other boys,
With ceaseless twitterings within his zone?

Through earplugs all the night I hear him cheep,
Blurring the line between awake and sleep.

Inspiration: John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale