The Pink Flamingo Bat

🦩🦇 The Pink Flamingo Bat

In twilight’s blush where the mango trees lean,  

A flamingo bat flits through the tangerine sheen.  

With wings like silk and a beak that sings,  

He pirouettes past Saturn’s rings.


His feathers are pink, his eyes are noir,  

He sleeps in a chandelier, dreams in a jar.  

By day he’s a poet in velvet repose,  

By night he’s a shadow in flamingo clothes.


He dines on echoes and nectar of stars,  

Plays jazz on a sax made of cinnamon bars.  

His laugh is a loop, his flight a ballet—  

He’s the moon’s own muse in a cabaret.


So if you hear flapping where flamingos don’t fly,  

And the night smells faintly of blueberry pie,  

It might be our bat in his rosy disguise,  

Winking at owls with flamingo eyes.

🦩🦇



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