The Fable of the Migrant Bird.
Tune: The Dalesman's Litany. Words by Paul Haines. Copyright 1984.
Adapted from an anonymous office broadsheet.

A little bird set out one day an his migrant winter flight,
He'd been delayed in flying south, out larking late at night,
When flying up in high snow clouds, his wings began to freeze,
And he fell to earth in a farmer's field collapsing on his knees.

Just as he was about to slip into death's last frozen sleep,
Young Buttercup came wandering up, all for to take a peep,
And seeing the birdy on the ground, a-shivering where he lay,
Young Buttercup raised up her tail, crapped on him, and walked away.

As this steaming heap of warm fresh shit began to thaw the birdy,
He roused himself, and from death's door, awoke and 'came quite sturdy,
He chirped a song of happy mirth, though his movements were restricted,
By the gooey lump of hot manure, that to his wings was stickted.

Hearing this merry chirping sound, sly Felix from the farmhouse,
Slipped through the cat-flap in the door, and swift as any fieldmouse,
He hooked the birdy from the mound, and wiped him on the grass,
And, when he was all nice and clean, he gobbled him up fast.

The moral of this tale is clear, and conclusion now it lends,
That he who gets you out of the shit, he may not be your friend,
And he that comes and craps on you, he may not be your foe,
But if you're warm and happy in a pile of shit, then keep your big mouth closed.

Shambles, please read and inwardly digest.

Don T.