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The Sparrow

 
Tweedle-ee-dee! Tweedle-ee-dee!
He soars above the chaparral,
Singing songs of folderol,
That float down past the tamarack,
Taking all the rest aback.
They beg and plead and shout for more.
Such palaver does he adore.
These lovely little sycophants,
Crawling down below like ants.
Their extolations much like hymns,
Place him in a palanquin.
Where he rides out his joke,
Wrapped in a taffeta cloak.
‘Till his wings beat their last death throes,
And in his fall from grace, he goes:
Tweedle-ee-dee! Tweedle-ee-dee!