One Sunday noon on an old oak tree
A score of birds have gathered
Of different feathers they were, but free
And freedom they admired

They did their count, “One, five, six, twelve!”
Oh God! There’s someone missing!
“Aye Birds!” said Owl “Thy count thineselves!”
“Love Birds! Please rest from kissing!”

One poor black bird was left behind
One crow, ain’t old in age
He’s locked inside, he cannot find
His way out from his cage!

In a red red room he lost his faith
in what was once divine
As all birds swore they saw his wraith
In every glass of wine!

“ATT-EN-TION!” squeaked old clumsy owl
“WE ALL SHALL SAVE OUR FRIEND!”
So south they flew, with soup in bowl
For that, then, was the trend

****

One Sunday noon on an old oak tree
Thirteen birds have gathered
With one black crow, they all flew free
and feasting they admired!

H.Q.
Sun@11:40
14^th March 2010