I, a hawk, sitting high up in the trees

Looking out over my kingdom, I’m thinking

What do I have which makes me powerful?

I, a hawk, can soar high up up up

Into the air, but then, so can other birds

But maybe (hopefully!) not as well as me.

I, a hawk, have shiny feathers which drink the sun

And make all the world mark my beauty, but then so does a peacock,

But maybe we don’t go there.

I, a hawk, have beautiful eyes piercing

All who spot me. But what good is poking holes

In people’s souls? I know the answer.

I, a hawk, can hunt and kill and

Ram right into a bird and feathers fly everywhere

and the head falls off but that’s gross so I eat it.

I, a hawk, know what makes me powerful. This

Simple little thing, bit of knowledge, is what

Makes me,

Myself,

I,

A hawk.