The wild instincts that in me breathe.
How horrible your lonely fate,
To be behind that golden gate.
If I for you undo the bars,
Perhaps you’ll soar beyond the stars.
Where go birds-souls—I really wonder—
It makes me sit and sit and ponder.
Oh, sing to me, you lovely thing,
Oh, sing and sing and sing and sing.’
“Then Dick Canary hurt his throat,