starings
Another poem, from UK We’re starlings, the misses, meself and the boys,We don’t go round hopin‘, we walks.We don’t go in for this singing all day,And twittering about, we just squawks.We don’t go in for these fashionable clothes,Like old Missel Thrush, and his spots,Me breast isn’t red, there’s no crest on me head,We’ve got sort of, hardwearing…dots.We starlings, the misses, meself and the … Read more