Wood Pecker

Yes, I’m pecking wood.
Yes, I think bark bugs taste good.
No, I’m not a bird.



Her Stepmom (like her spawn)’s a jerk;
Her Pop’s just gone; she’s forced to work
As servant to her step-sisturds.
So, what’s her secret? Lots of birds.


Frogs that aren’t afraid of birds
Are loud enough to drown the words
Of observations in the dark
By random people in the park,
But when the sun is in the sky
You have to listen to the guy
Beside you; birds are not good friends
To audible amphibians
Whose invisibility cloaks
Are missing. God, I miss those croaks.

The Pears Were Nice

The twelfth day of the holiday
Passed quietly for me:
No drummers (chased them all away);
Few birds (we’re down to three).
I love receiving gifts, but, man,
Reciprocating’s tough
When they don’t make a moving van
That’s nearly big enough
To pack up all the birds and women
That you sent this year.
Don’t start me on the swans a-swimmin’!
(That’s a fowl I fear.)
I don’t think that I can keep
This rivalry in play.
So call me cheap, but let me sleep!
No birds next Christmas day?

Bird Hat

I have a hat that’s overrun
With birds, which sounds like lots of fun
Unless you have a phobia
Of screaming birds all over ya’,
In which case this is not the topper
For which you should opt: Show-stopper.
If you’d like to try it, though,
And don’t mind bird-poo, Go, Dog, Go!
“I like that hat,” Boy Dog will cry,
“I like that birdy hat!” Though why
Girl Dog should care a flipping whit
About what he thinks, I don’t git.
My point, non-P.D. Eastman nerds,
Is this: I’ve got a hat with birds.