Galah

I was a little pink Galah,
Just sitting on the highway tar.
Just sitting, eating, on the road,
Wheat that spilt from someone's load.
Fighting for the finest seeds,
Disgusted with my partner's greed.
Then flying high to miss the cars,
Which often flatten slow Galahs.

Just then I found a lovely grain,
It made the other wheat look plain.
It was big and rounded but,
It had fallen in a rut.

My friends were squawking, "There's a car,
Get off the road ya mad galah!"
I didn't fly, I'd just about
Got that delicious seed dug out.
My friends were making quite a fuss,
Squawking that "the car's a bus!".

I got the seed an' flew but splat,
And now I'm feeling rather flat.
A very sore and sorry bird,
The driver hadn't even heard.
And here I am stuck on the grill,
Feeling quite a dopey dill.
But not everyone can poach,
A ride upon a tourist coach.
And as I drive about today,
I see the world in a different way.

Exerpt from a poem by
David McK. Berman