While corresponding with Kicks Condor, I realized I didn’t have a snappy, instantly-recognizable definition for a drongo. To fill that need, I began this poem in December 2019, edited and extended it over the next couple months, and pronounced it finished on 2020-01-29, around 23:33.
A drongo is a hooligan, A whirlywind, a fool, A tonguer of adventure's taste, A seeker of the cool. With merry eyes he seeks a prize— He's not so sure it's real— By keeping ever on the move He turns all woe to weal. The drongo's madman tendencies Are rarely well-controlled. To pyrite one may see him cling, Convinced it's good as gold. First going hard, then going fast, Then going 'round again, Is perfect drongo conduct, which The drongo finds urbane. To drongo is to wander through A landscape from the past, With no plan but to savor it— Then toast it, at the last. A drongo has nowhere to be Before his chosen hour. Though time may threaten him with snares, He's far beyond its pow'r. If drongos call out, "Nine o'clock!" They never mean the time: They're pointing out a pretty girl Who's standing at your nine. Should you insist that's boorish — fine! Renounce it, if you choose. A drongo's way is his alone, And his alone to lose. You can become a drongo — if It's true you have no lack Of love for wild abandon, and Distaste for looking back. For starters, ramble-shamble romp To anywhere you please. You'll know the other drongos when They join you in your ease.