Oh, what trouble ensues
of a little baby-talk over the bird-feeder
For pidgy wants a fat ball. Yes, she does.
And so with all the sparrows yelling, 'Do it!'
does not demur, demure
though she daubs her gluttony, goes it,
flies to the roof and sidles about
for more persuasion.
Yes, wittle piggy-iron. Feedy feed.
Hops she down to do the deed,
pecks the fat ball, pecks the seed,
ready to square-meal the whole equation -
When, Flump! Flim-flam! mate's
furiously on her fraternizing case.
Off she flies; her male pursues
her round the thorn trees - whizz
dizzily round again.
Ruinous rain
stops play. I up stumps and in.
But when I peer out, the two of them
in roofed shelter of the feeder
are laying waste to the provisions.
