Whistler

I might have married a painter, Therefore his mother. A radar Detector, a snow-covered Mountain, a novel By John Grisham not even Out yet. No, I wed The cop directing my rush, Toot toot, a trainer to test Agility, a kettle calling Time to steep. Yes, But I married this bird you must Close your eyes to know At scale, to hear his trills And fancy arpeggios Come-come-hithering. His note of warning.