Birdies

There is nothing better in the morning,
Than to be awoken by a ringing,
And I don’t mean my alarm clock machine,
I mean the birdies singing.

I love those birdy-birds,
In all their shapes and sizes,
The one’s in thigh-high boots,
And the one’s that wear disguises.

I find it hard that we devour,
Their wings, their breasts their hips,
Because there is nothing sweeter
Than when they peck you with their lips.

Then one dark day not so long ago,
They simply disappeared,
No more singing in the morning,
It was what I’d always feared.

Where have all my birdies gone?
Has someone caught each and every one?
Or have they simply lost their minds,
And flown towards the Sun.

Alone last night as I left the pub,
Having finished off my dregs,
The thought it dawned upon me
The birds have lost their legs.

So those poor birdies are doomed to flight,
And never ever land,
The only consolation is,
They love to fly not stand.

Gregory Sodergren