I sing for my supper,
I sing for my tea,
I sing for the joy,
of just being me.
The Robin must eat,
and, having eaten, keep on:
Winter be beaten!
Did you see Feather Christmas?
Robin was his name,
he bobbed along like Batman,
and played the party game;
pinnedthe tale upon the Heath,
followed Inns off to Jamaica;
he sang the songs with tones beneath
and shook the merry maker.
lil’ Robin
with its fiery breast,
hopping in the sunshine,
feeling blessed,
pecking scraps,
a seed or two,
oh happy hoppy Robin
we so love you.
The glint of gold
on a Goldfinch’s wing;
the trilling song
that a Blackbird does sing;
the cuteness overload
of a Robin’s hop;
the raucous cry
of a Jackdaw’s call;
there are many others,
but I cannot name them all.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #birds, #blackbird, #Goldfinch, #Jackdaw, #poetry. #poem, #Robin
There was a lil Robin
a-hopping in the garden,
I spoke to that Robin,
I said, ‘Do you know,
that ‘garden’ rhymes with ‘pardon’?’
He looked at me,
as Robins do,
and then he flew away;
I’m sad he went,
left so soon,
I had plenty more to say.
“Hoorah! to Robin
Obviously they are fun;
And hoots are second;
But, haven’t you heard?
The Blackbird was only third!
What occurred?” he howls!
 | Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
 | Words from a Lentil… on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Words from a Lentil… on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
Graeme Sandford 