Not an elegy, but a true tale of a sorry event that befell the neighbouring Falconry Centre.
The peregrine sulked as she sat in her cage,
a malevolent glare in her eye
at the falconer, seething with impotent rage
at her sullen refusal to fly.
The public had paid for the daily display
of the bird's aerobatical skill,
but the falconer gloomily turned them away
saying, Sorry, the peregrine's ill.
The bird kept on sulking, ignoring her food,
and was losing both feathers and weight,
till her poor frazzled keeper was forced to conclude
she was dying for want of a mate.
She falls off her perch and our revenue ends
(he observed) and the future's a blank.
So a tercel was found, with the help of his friends
and a sizeable loan from the bank.
The tercel (that's in-speak for masculine hawk)
soon arrived via Falcon Express.
When the peregrine saw him she uttered a squawk
which the falconer read as a Yes.
Her woeful demeanour, her pitiful hunch
disappeared at the drop of a hat.
She pounced on her suitor and ate him for lunch,
saying, Gosh, I feel better for that!
(A truism, one you've undoubtedly heard,
says a luncheon will never come free.
But a grand and a half for a wimp of a bird
is the teeniest bit OTT.)
[This message has been edited by EREME (edited May 28, 2003).]
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