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, rearing
Its gross blue throat, pouncing as if to screw.
All was flurry! All was feathers! But worst
Those dozen eyes, fixed in the plumage like dyes!
My Dad roughed the bird, but young me was cursed:
A child I fell, ornithophobic I rise.
Last year, at length, I conquered the pigeon;
Perhaps, one day, I’ll manage the chicken.
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