Six Plumed Bird of Paradise

In black robes, sedate,

I am more Thomas Cromwell

than Bird of Paradise,

vicarishly sombre in business dress

of funeral-bridal.

But set my stage with berries,

clear a tidy path to you,

transformed, I am wanton

advertising, head bobbing, hopping

side to side, and when I hypnotise

with my flimsy head frippery, 

fishing rods of whimsy, to catch you,

when I entrance with my emerald thrusting

throat, dazzling in bursts; puffery,

and I flamenco dance a branch towards you,

my plain intended,

my feathered hype 

is at its most extended

to persuade and overwhelm.