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Bluebird

Bluebird
by Henry Charles Bukowski (b. 1920; d. 1994)

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out,
But I’m too tough for him.
I say, “Stay in there. I’m not going to let anybody see you.”

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out,
But I pour whiskey on him, and inhale cigarette smoke.
And the whores
And the bartenders
And the grocery clerks
Never know that he’s in there.

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out,
But I’m too tough for him.
I say, “Stay down. Do you want to mess me up?
You want to screw up the works?
You want to blow my book sales in Europe?”

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out,
But I’m too clever.
I only let him out at night,
Sometimes,
When everybody’s asleep.
I say, “I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad.”

Then I put him back.

But he’s singing a little in there;
I haven’t quite let him die.
And we sleep together like that,
With our secret pact.
And it’s nice.
Enough to make a man weep.
But I don’t weep.
Do you?

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