From head to toe, this bird is blue—for having been provided cart blanche to pick berries as plump as never-slept pillows, chosen ones out-turned to be rareripe—a too squishable state perhaps due to being diasporic denizens not nourished by Maine’s singularly super loam—and, hence, considered as un-pie-worthy, they will, instead, be trodden—with both hen-cackles and sole-tackles—into a finest wine via pigeage and these cobalt heels—after a nifty nap up-kicks rose-ier possibilities. ; )