How Could They Stop At One

The days the owls rioted, I ran to my warm bed. I got inside my quilts and I covered my head. With their talons and beaks, they elected king Fred. I dared not say a word, but my face was pure red. They plotted and schemed, these fowls so smart. I heard one of them coughing, his name is Blue Art. We have to act now, but first, we’ll all have a Sweet Tart. How could they stop at one? I asked Feathered Bart. He gave me a glare and pecked hard at my feet. Stay under those covers, or your fate won’t be sweet. I did not dare make another noise, answer phone or send a tweet. I knew then that I was surely about to be beat.