The Bird Gets the Last Word

You stay down there, and I’ll just sit

Up on my perch, whistle and chirp

And warble ’til you throw a fit

Because I’m being such a twerp—

I’ll flap and flutter, cheep and caw

And drive you right out of your tree

Until you want to break the law

And take a shot or two at me—

But I, no matter how you squirm,

Won’t quit my pestering; so far,

I’m winning, you poor lowly worm,

And soon I’ll also strafe your car.