In Monty Python's Flying Circus, there's an clarification for a parrot's shortage of responsiveness: "It's not pining, it's passed on. This impersonator is no much. It has ceased to be. It's expired and away to bump into its shaper. This is a tardy bird. It's a solemn. Bereft of life, it rests in order. If you hadn't nailed it to the perch, it would be enterprising up the daisies. It's round descending the drape and combined the chorus hidden. This is an ex-parrot."
There are three kinds of individuals in the world: Eagles, ducks and insensible parrots. Dead Parrots - the worldwide is replete of them. They are the society who converse the natter but who never saunter the walk, culture who steal the language of serious men, but have no natural life of their own. They masquerade as body and saviors. They cognize all the libretto and all the answers and they have deliberate much, but their lives are senseless meanderings of mediocrity and cooperation. They have office, enclose forth, but don't grab any wet. They are professors in universities, bureaucrats, mayors of cities and body of unions. Figureheads, mouthpieces, slaves. They dread and turn away from freshness and imagination at all costs. They are but parrots and they have no life, no spark, no backbone and no state. There is a Nykusa adage that goes, "The stone-dead if not separated from the living, bring down insaneness upon them."