There’s a bird in my garden that’s destined for fame.
He is dark and quite scruffy, I don’t know his fame.
Not like Nathan, or Roger, or Peter or Mike,
But like Lanius Collurio, or Red-backed Shrike.
He visits me daily, for the sunflower seed,
For peanuts and water; an avian need.
The goldfinch rewards me with colours so bright.
But this beggar’s dowdy, and a bit of a sight.
He feeds on the fatballs, and gets seeds off the ground.
And couldn’t care less when the cat comes around.
The blackbirds repay me with a late evening song.
But the “scruffbird” will sing neither briefly nor long.
But he does have a talent, related to singing.
He mimics the sound of a telephone ringing.
Sitting up in the treetops, he opens his throat,
And loudly emits an old “trim-phone” sort of note
Now this bird you’ll agree, has a real claim to fame.
And as such he should have an appropriate name.
Nothing silly or flippant, or plainly absurd.
So henceforth, he’ll be known as, “The Telephone Bird.”