Black Bird Singing

A happy black bird started singing at my door.
Rather early in the morning, maybe half past four.
The song itself was fine, a pleasant little tune.
But it wore out its welcome all too soon.
So I rose from my bed, threw on a dirty shirt,
And went to speak to the bird sitting on my front dirt.
I told the black bird that I understood the need
To sing and to call, for others to heed.
But I needed sleep, enough to throw a jab,
So the drunk African woman got up and went to get a cab.