I live life as swamp sparrow every year suffering the mistake of his gambit. Wings can be torn, my beak cracked, yet my song still rings with irony. No matter, I am content to stay perched in my tree, its leaves a thousand chameleons to express the constant change that is peculiar to my timbre. Masquerading the clown, my beak turns red, my plumage failing to camouflage the ignominy that has been bestowed in orange zigzags across my back. Victory is declared by my foe when they have won nothing but a legerdemain. Bad gambits are said to be jinxed takeoffs. This bird does not agree; cats do not feed on my tender flesh, sharp claws guarantee soft landings.