If I we're at bird

If I were a bird, high up above these empty streets, I'd pick the biggest hypocrite first. That politician on the balcony, preaching unity while kicking his staff around—splat, right on his wig. He wipes it off, confused, mouth still yapping nonsense. Next, the bossy neighbor yelling at her kids through an open window. Mid-sentence... plop, perfect hit. She ducks, curses, looks ridiculous with feathers stuck to her brow. I'd loop around parks too, drop loads on loudmouths who cut lines, on drivers honking at nothing. No warning, no mercy—just free falling gifts from the sky.so, yeah. I'd land on the statue of some long-dead hero who preached mercy but killed for sport. Fitting. Right there in the town square, splatter across the bronze face. Tourists gasp, pigeons join in like backup dancers. Old lady selling pretzels starts cackling too—turns out she got fired last week by the mayor. We share a conspiratorial nod. Mid-air high-five. That's the bond, you know? The misunderstood flyers against the ground-dwellers. And if anyone points up yelling 'who did that!', I'd just ruffle my feathers and say, in the only language I know—splat.