Poems

'twas a bright and early sunday
and the birds went out to play,
the bulls and heiffers mooing
over the freshest bit of hay.

My alarm went off at seven,
the radio playing Mozarts "Eleven"
A little wee bird pirched on the sill,
as though a scene from heaven.

It's feathers painted colourfully,
It's song it sang so gleefully,
It danced a waltz, a little tango,
on its short brown legs so cheerfully

I rubbed my sleepy head,
got out of my comfy bed,
went to the closet and grabbed my gun,
and shot the damn thing dead.

I hate mornings!