The Firebird
            There is a bird, beautiful and rare.
            Her kind lived of old.
            Once, they graced the air,
            But now their bones lie cold.

            Shining feathers red as flame,
            Redder than roses, brighter than blood.
            'Twas the feathers earned her her name.
            All creatures seemed stained with mud

            When compared with her beauty,
            The perilous beauty of fire.
            Where is another lovely as she?
            Where is flame to match her ire?

            The head is radiant and proud.
            It is crowned with fiery plumes.
            The red beak cries sweet and loud,
            "Please give me room!"

            For she is accustomed to being obeyed,
            The niece of eagles, the daughter of torches.
            Anyone who doesn't will be made
            Into ashes by her breath, which scorches.

            The body is brilliant but slender.
            The red feet have talons hooked.
            Her will is great: none can bend her.
            She likes her food cooked.

            The tail's so soft, soft as kitten fur,
            Yet it burns your hand.
            The wide-spread feathers become her,
            Her and her commands.

            But the flaming, stunning wings,
            Are what catch your eye.
            They're the glorious, powerful things
            That allow her to soar high.

            Please, protect the mistress of flame.
            To capture her would be absurd;
            But treasure her so others will know her name,
            The name of the Firebird.