Poem: Nice Shot

A bird shit on my head yesterday,
I probably deserved it.
You know immediatly that
it is birdshit.
Not rain, not spit,
nor soda, nor piss.
It's bird shit
and it's in your hair.
Slowley lifting your hand
to touch your gooey hair,
fingers coming back white and green
with bird shit.
"Nice shot,"
I mutter cynically
to the sky,
as I wander off,
in search of toilet paper.