O blessed bard! You understood
me! Likewise, I rejoice
to once have known a man who could
appreciate my voice!

Most said it sounded crazy, or
they'd laughingly dispute
my song as being really more
a hiccup in a hoot.

A golden time indeed to hear
my music set to words!
But now that you're no longer near,
my singing's for the birds.

My empty cry just fades away
in echoes through the hills.
I wander, lonely, since the day
You spied those daffodils.

.
My feathered butt is sore
from sitting in a tree
and serenading you, John Keats,
while you’re in misery.
You say you want to fly to me,
but nothing doing, sir!
Pack up your pain, invent a plane,
and get thee to Big Sur!
.

TWEETS TO KEATS

Mr. Keats, you are confused.
I'm glad you like my song,
And yet the premise of your poem
Is simply, flat-out wrong.

We nightingales live just two years.
Your jealousy's misplaced.
While human beings feast on life,
We birds have just a taste.

So even if you get TB
And die at twenty-five,
Don't be envious of me:
I will not be alive.

Limerick

I pour forth my soul in the thicket.
My song is eternity's ticket.
Yet each of my tweets
means, "Dear Mr. Keats,
just take your damm poem and stick it."

mortal, not immortal
 

Neatly macabre, Roger.

Is there anybody else who simply can't read this:

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

without hearing this?

A-well everybody’s heard about the bird
A-well a bird bird bird well-a bird is the word
Well everybody knows that the bird is the word

Drives me cuckoo!

And you, who chat up every birdie,
rejoicing to your core,
O Wordsorth! Shall I call you Wordy,
or but a wandering Bore?

You dare to say I babble, Bill?
Among your verses, plodding,
you never a met a daffodil
you didn’t set to nodding.

My twofold call has brevity.
What’s more, it has some wit,
regarded as a commentary
on who’s the bigger Twit.

Frank

.
A Nightingale by Any Other Name Would Be in Another Ode

.
All this warbling makes me weary,
my throat is sore, my life is dreary,
I can’t stand your poesy, Johnny, anymore.

When you croak, I’ll croak along,
I’ll sing a hoarse and merry song,
at your coffin I’ll be ravin’ "Nevermore!"
.