Poor, pitiful, little bird,
The saddest thing you ever heard.

He flutters his painful, broken wing,
While he continues to sorrowfully sing.

He hops around so nervously,
Ready to quickly flee.

He conceals himself among the heather,
And there he starts to clean a feather.

He suddenly stops as he hears some noises,
And like a rock, motionless--poises.

Vibrations shake the plants he's under,
And he's sent to blindly blunder.

Terror smites his timid heart,
Fear melts this work of art.

He starts chirping frantically,
And scares a passing bumblebee.

The grass above him opens up,
And gentle people pick him up.

They treat him like a royal king
And bandage up his broken wing.

They take him home and feed him seeds;
Give him toys made of beads.

They keep him 'til he's at his best,
Then bring him out, back to his nest.