Why the caged bird sings

I always wondered why the caged bird sings.

In Songpa, I had time to ponder this. The caged bird don’t get to hear chirps from his friends for the random cup of coffee or beer session.

The caged bird don’t get to see the world or the sun cept through the bars of it’s cage and through the distant window.

All day nothing to do but sleep. At night, a blanket thrown over the cage means lights out. More sleep.

The caged bird don’t get to pick the seeds it eats, it don’t get to exercise it’s wings or strut its stuff. All it can do is sing. The two things nobody can take from it, it’s mind and by extension it’s voice.

It’s feathers may be plucked, it’s wings clipped, its talons cut, much like me: my hair shaved, my hands gaffled, my freedom to move curtailed.

Instead of losing my mind, I used my mind for it remains free, my voice may be unheard but my written words booming.

Now I know why the caged bird sings, it’s the same reason Simon B writes, putting that pen to paper. It’s all he can do.