Let me tell you my origin story;
Roll back your stone imagination
And grant access to this: a true Rory
Myth, the keystone to my creation.
We must toddle through time back eighteen years,
Before making swift haste to Whipsnade Zoo;
A peacock stalks my younger self, then rears
Its gross blue throat, pouncing as if to screw.
All was flurry! All was feathers! But worst
Those dozen eyes, fixed in plummage like dyes!
Though my Dad roughed the bird, young me was curst:
A child I fell, ornithophobic I rise.
Last year, at length, I conquered the pigeon;
Perhaps, one day, I’ll manage the chicken.