Its five in the morning
And it's not really light,
The birds are signaling
The end of the night.
Now most people thinks
It's a joyous thing
At crack of dawn when
Birds start to sing
But I'm pretty certain
They're just complaining
About Draughty hedges
And why is it raining.
Those aren't notes of joy
As their chorus mounts
Just squeaks of pain
About arthritic joints.
Whether they be hearty
Or older and infirm
They still have to hunt
For that bloody worm.
The missus Is chuntering,
The thing she does best,
About all the delay in
Finishing their nest.
Then there'll be the chicks
Those chuntering litttle squabs
Littering the place with
Their ever open gobs.
There really doesn't seem
To be any rhyme or reason
In all that hard work for
Such a short mating season.
Every human seems to think
It's songs of joy they've just heard
But it's really a chorus
Of discontented birds.
