The battle of the birds

They waited for battle
chirping all the old familiar songs,
a real dawn chorus of a feast.
Those with the brightest
plumage puffed out their chests,
and gave the orders to fire.
Soon the feathers flew,
the chirping replaced
with squawking and screeching.
The old French maids
had never heard such a hullabaloo
They threw their hands up in horror
and fled to the hills.

One by one the birds fell,
even the old guard toppled off their perches.
When the slaughter had ended
an eerie silence reigned.
The shell-blasted craters were littered
with bodies, bird on bird,
eyes sparked out
beaks still standing to attention.