Aubade

What was then sung
was a dismal song
armour plated;
a cactus cantata

with choked melody
and cutthroat words;
mouth shrapnel;
gutter's gruff blues.

To hear it once
was to be drained,
to wish day over
when barely begun.

Was it within the song
or within himself:
the rooster's craw
slashed, mid-crow,

as the bloody morning rose?