You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem,
Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em
That you should not
Be shot:
What saw I then, what heard?
Multitudes—multitudes, under the tree they stirred,
And with too many a broken note and wheeze
They sang what each did please....
And Thou,
O bird of emeraldine beak and brow,