The Dilling Bird

by Stephen Sparke

The Dilling bird is the quearest of things
in fact I'd say quite abserd
I mean have you heard of a bird
that carries its eggs on its wings?.
You think its too silly, but wait, they are shy
they live in lands steep and hilly.
They rise so late that it's early next day
before they take to the sky.
While busily flapping
the mother, O brother!
Tries jerking her eggs
from one wing to the other
by violently shaking her legs
and just as it seems, she's done as she dreams
an egg rolls away down her tail,
in natural reaction she goes into action
flipping the egg at her chin
with frightful clout she knocks herself out
and goes into a terrible spin.
But before its to late and not feeling to great
she recovers, lord lovers! returning in search of a mate.
It seems such a shame that a birdy so willing
so thrilling as the Dilling should suffer the loss of eggs
which it would have preferred to have never occured
but it'll start all over again, again.
 

How the Organge Owl Became Read

by Stephen Sparke

The orange downed, brown breasted, hairy chested owl
was by scientific theory and analytic query, a flee infested fowl.
Its dimension and form though seemingly norm
differed with its own shape and size.
Which baffled all those who were known to be clever as ever and wise
invited mathematicians and bio-physicians united, to study its habits and feed.
Some bickered and faught saying it ought to be caught
but most conceded that this was not needed,
if the owl's to succeed, given it freedom to breed.

Our purple toed, bow pecker, feather checker friend,
did it slumber sweet, two hundred feet, unknowingly descend.
From shoddy nest he came to rest in a puddle on the ground.
In a soak he awoke, his dream up in steam,
frightened to yawn case he drowned.
He blinked two weary green eyes at his fellow flies,
to whom he had been so despicably mean.
He ate one or two to clear his view, and then a few more in contempt.
Too clammy, unclean, I'm bedraggled, he babbled "unkempt!"

This shy bright streaked, fur cheeked, scar of the air
being dressed, assumed that the best way to dry was to fly.
With a shiver and a quiver he arose to his formal repose,
deserting the cool of the pool for drying his clothes,
blowing his nose and spreading his wings for a flap.

Your adored, flick clawed. trick deed breed of bird,
would pass the hours pondering at his powers and how they occurred.
But now was the season of spring when life finds good reason to sing.
Oh! for a lady owl, he'd perspire with desire, he'd wish she'd exist
to-wit with her first till her sides nearly burst,
then to woe her, subdue her and feather together in bliss.
Such magnificent love he may never know, and the rest of his life would be woe
with no mate to date, no apple of his eye, no miss to kiss, no rabbit pie.
To-wit, to-woo he'd repeat night after night till the skies grew blue in the face
too-wit, to-woo he'd cry on a chase in the dark, in the bushes, all over the place.

Feeling rough the frilly fluff, our Casanova rover,
went willy-nilly tripping over tree tops to-wit to-wooing.
Suddenly, he felt sure he saw his one and only softly cooing
he took a chance, made a landing, standing beside her on a branch.
"To-wit, to-woo" he said, "I'll love you, not me, instead!"
She gazed amazed at his orange down till every feather had been read,
and said, "I leave nothing to chance, you are the star of my dreams, care to dance?"
They danced the 'Flamingo' beak to beak, wing to wing, they did everything.
He grew fond of the blond, she of he, and lived happily ever after in an old oak tree.