Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
—John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”
1.
Beat it, bird. We've heard enough about
the charms of elsewhere. While you poured forth your soul
like a poet hidden in the light of thought,
 blithe spirit, we grew tired of the whole
immortal business. Each of us has drunk
from the cup of sorrows and of boredom, too.
So I've wandered out here onto the front lawn
half-dressed, picked up a chunk
of gravel, and I'm aiming it at you.
A nice tune, but we'd rather you were gone.
2.
Most mornings here I take the trash outside
and haul it to the curb. I know you're there—

 Creech, in his annotation above, mentions the bird as a “sublime symbol of art far removed from the painful realm of human anxieties and suffering”, used in the writing of Keats and Shelley. 
 Here, that sentiment is crystallized. The bird’s song is beautiful (a symbol of art), but it’s not in tune (pun intended) with the realistic human experience. While it’s beautiful, it must go.
Song and Complaint