All hail to thee green baldicoot
Who whistles whilst he plays the flute,
Who lays the eggs, though he is male,
And even reads his books in Braille.
Oh pesky bird, all hail to thee
Who sits in yonder apple tree,
Yet tries my hair but to enhance,
With droppings, given half a chance.
But excuse me now - I’ll get my gun -
And next time won’t I have some fun!
That bloomin’ creature’s got it coming.
I’ll quickly sort out all his plumbing.