“I’m tired,” said the small brown wren,
“Of melodies I’m singing.
My father taught these tunes to me
Ere ever I went winging.
There’s too much repetition here
And such monotony.
I wish I knew a song or two
With more variety.
I’d like to trill like the whippoorwills
Before the night is through
Or even screech like the great horned owls,
Forever asking “who?”
I wouldn’t “caw” like coal black crows.
I find them way too loud—
Repeating single syllables,
Then strutting off so proud.
I might shrill like the sandpipers
Along the eastern shore
Or scream like eagles on the wing
As they begin to soar.
I would not squawk like the parrots,
Repeating what they hear,
Or even go “quack” like the ducklings
Who waddle everywhere.
Each whistle and warble and peep—
The mockingbird mimics them all,
Replays then the concert he’s borrowed
As part of his own mating call.
I guess if all birds tired of singing
The songs sung so often before,
Our twitters and tweets would be silenced
And sadly be heard nevermore.”
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