A retired ABS was there with the Bride in a Tampa Bay Hotel while she was attending a series of boring and non-productive meetings and after his free breakfast, ABS was returning to their room to draft some anonymous ill-considered and vaguely threatening emails when he saw this seemingly pacific sign on the Cottonwood room.
I don't think I have to tell you what Cottonwood room means in the south but I will tell you anyways. I'm pretty sure Cottonwood refers to an adult entertainment room where Playboy Bunnies run around in their sexy outfits shaking their cotton tails and exciting men - or - it refers to a type of tree and because this was a DoubleTree Hotel we were staying at, it is prolly the latter meaning of Cottonwood that obtains but ABS likes his definition much better.
What sort of men is it who are interested in this deadly "sport?"
Prolly fat white pot-bellied bespectacled men named Lou or Earl, men who order Hot Dogs with sauerkraut and dribble ketchup all over their white wife-beater undershirts that they wear to local fairs that's who, but PETA has the poop on this fly-by-night gambling den of iniquity that results in these poor dead birds dropping from the sky like dead birds but this is not your typical story of innocent wildlife being killed for the amusement of Whitey; no, this is a story of captive cooers (is that a word?) being caged and taught to fly like a bastid by dog-eating commies: at least that is what this madness looks like to ABS.
Sure, it can not be denied that they are in some sense sort of being buried at sea - which is an honor in some crummy countries - but still, Bury my heart at wounded wing, is his own made-up poem that comes to the sensitive mind of ABS:
Buy my heart at wounded wing
where lie feathers and beaks and other things;
things like necks that turn 180 degrees,
and pigeon lips and pigeon knees.