I asked for hilarity on the subject of birds, and the one that made me laugh the most was:
My Tits Looked At My Bottom
by Ellen Best
My Tits live in a nest hidden in a tree,
I like to watch them daily
They also take a peep at me.
They caught sight of my bottom
when I stepped upon my skirt
I tripped and heard them chortle
my pride was really heart.
My Tits looked at my bottom
and I will never be the same
I know I heard the raven
Calling out my name.
The Raven told the Robin
that he saw my bum
The Robin told the Lark
that all the birds should come.
The Tits shall not get any supper
or a lardy mealworm for desert
I believe it’s a fitting punishment
for my pride being sorely hurt.
I don’t know what I unleashed in this contest, by the way, because there were 24 entries! You are all very clever, and I had a good, quiet smile over many. I laughed aloud at four or five of these.
I think this is a great new contest. I invite you all to read them all, and have a good laugh for yourself:
What about my tits?
The council cut the trees down in our road so I sent a message asking where my tits were going to sit.
I had a very nice response and a few days later found a hawthorne tree in a bucket by our door with the council’s compliments.
Original post here
by Doug Jacquier
My shop is called The Birds, partly because it’s unsettling Hitchcockian overtones amuse me but mostly because I only sell birds. Customers flock to my avianorium, where only the best of the nest will do, so that they can pin a feather in their cap and cock a snoot at less discerning buyers. One day, a preening peacock of the human variety entered my shop and looked down his not inconsiderable beak at various of my wing-ed wonders and trilled thus:
‘I had hoped to find feathered treasure but, alas, I feel let down. Nevertheless, I will take that vaguely presentable kookaburra to give my friends a laugh.’
‘$500, cage included.’
‘Oh, you are a hoot. $200 is my best and final offer.’
Taking my silence as lack of consent, he turned theatrically and made for the door, before pausing and turning.
‘One last chance to change your mind’
I gave him the bird.
by Deb Whittam
Flying high above,
Went the little dove.
Splat into the wall,
What a way to fall.
The bird-hog conversation
by Doug Jacquier
Bird: … and you’re out here swimming because …?
Hog: It’s Thursday.
Bird: How do you know what day it is?
Hog: Because I always go swimming on Thursdays.
The Long Sentence Bird
by Ian Kay
Frankie the Parrot is
facing thirty-three years
and that’s an awfully
long sentence for a bird.
You ought not to have done
the monkey nut heist
explained his honour,
Bubbles the Bonobo
in summing up.
by Matt Snyder
What’s that bird doing over there ?
Squatting about as everyone stares.
Heading now, towards that stoop.
OMG, now taking a poop ?!
Senility has set in for this royal multimillionaire.
The birds sleep late into the morning these days and then cry out for brunch. And then, after a wholesome meal, they chirp contently with bulging bellies. We listen to this strange sonata of fulfilment at noon and wonder if our lives have turned upside down. Then we see that we’re wearing masks and sanitizing the doorknobs and realize that we are indeed walking on fours while the birds enjoy our privileges.
I’m sure, at first, the sight of deserted lanes and unfrequented alleyways shocked the birds. They must have readied themselves as usual for the pollution, the noise of traffic and construction, and the voyeur who spies on them from his rooftop. They must have looked forward to the usual cacophony of plates and curses at eight in the morning. But I look at them now and understand that they’ve changed their entire rhythm.
They lounge around at two, bathing in the green and insolently chirp when they spot a nervous gas mask-wearing, modern Rambo, scuttling like a cockroach to collect his supplies. They’ve grown fat and love the languor of the afternoon, and mockingly sing when they spot the voyeur – without his camera and bizarre instruments – sitting in the confines of his bedroom, thereby giving him a taste of his own medicine. They are also wise enough to stay away from mad protestors who selfishly demand rights, and Presidential tweets because they’re content with their tweets which aren’t inspired by the need to brag or compete or present an image.
I’ve heard a story about a bird who flew. I don’t know anything about that. However, as I was driving down a back road the other a barely distinguishable animal scurrying across it forced me to come to a complete stop in order to avoid hitting it. Upon closer examination I realized what kind of animal it was. I do not know why the chicken crossed the road, but I can wholeheartedly assure you that it did.
by Melanie B Cee
Oh dearest bedraggled rain soaked birdie
Perched precariously on my window sill
I see you there, huddled in your misery and think “Oh Lordie”
And wish some comfort I could instill
Aside from seeds and shelter – is there bird Advil?
You look so cold and lonely there, a sparrow in the rain
I know you come equipped with water proofing and you are not ill
Well not as humans understand the notion, be it plain
You fluff and preen, hop tiny foot to tiny foot and shed a quill
Maybe two, small treasures lost but not oft missed; and at least you can easily drink your fill.
The rain falls steadily, silently into our world
Refreshing us with its constant steady stream
Might even raise some hope – a small banner unfurled
Absent in these grim days – almost a dream
As we pretend things are normal, but not as they seem.
The sun peeks through the darkened clouds
High in the sky, off loading their wet burden
I see Mr. Birdie flex his wings and push his breast out, proud
But did you have to leave something behind, O Mr. Verdin
Maybe you think it’s payment or a gift; but me? I only know your bowels unburdened.
Oh bird poo upon my sill
Left there by yon feathered avian
I’ll have to scrub and clean until
The brick is bare, shorn and shaven
Free of germs again, although this time it’s not your species fault, this flu, this internal alien.
Grown weary of merely watching,
from the comfort of my covered deck,
the furtive scheming and solemn antics
of a murder of somber crows careening
from tree to skeletal tree,
I determined to lure one in,
if I could, to keep as my very own pet.
The plan, devised around research revealing that
crows bear grudges and recognize human faces,
required time, patience, persistence, and food.
If they can bear a grudge, thought I, surely they must
also be capable of good will and attachment.
I ventured down from my lofty perch,
scattered generous handfuls of seed along
the border of their wood, retreated
but only a little, then daily repeated, retreating
less each time, watched closely for signs
of which ones might be warming, won over
by my beneficence, willing to suffer
my further encroachment.
They cawed amongst themselves without surcease,
a symphony of rough sawblades at work,
saying things like, I imagined, “This guy’s alright”, or
“I don’t trust him,” and “My, he sure is handsome!”
as they all grew fat and lustrous.
On a chill and rainy day, I swear one, set apart by
his notched beak and a particular glint
to his gaze, as frigid water sluiced
down the gutter of his beak-scar, and
he sidled closer, hopping, eyeing me,
said, “I am so damn ready to bust outta this woody prison!
No crow here gets me, I don’t fit in,”
he lamented, pecking seed from my palm with
more vigor than usual, raising his wings,
and I knew he was The One.
He walked up my arm, perched on my shoulder,
proceeded to preen my windblown, rainsoaked
curls with gentle beaky tugs and his tough, blue tongue.
Slowly at first but with growing assurance, I
turned, walked, mounted stairs, paused on my porch.
I could not welcome him into my home unchristened,
so with thoughts of his fabled distant cousin,
the raven, in fact, so aptly named by my
long-departed poetic hero Mr. Poe, I asked,
“How do you feel about the name Nepenthe,
noble crow, since I anticipate your presence
will bring me peace?” He lifted midnight wings,
fluffed iridescent feathers, raised his princely head,
and cawed, magnificent, “Forevermore!”
So in we went.
by Peregrine Arc
“It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s…a case of a bird brained optometrist giving me the wrong prescription.”
by Stine Writing
Birds are wild
birds can sing
Male birds have
The Aspirational Seagull
There once was a bird, was a seagull
He tried very hard to be evil
But he wound up being like Smeagol
And now gets his fish from a cave pool.
Birds Aren’t Real
by H.R.R. Gorman
What are those creatures flying in the winds?
No other feathers bear, none else do dive.
They’re strange for a reason: The Man – he sends
These drones out to monitor our dull lives.
Yes – those eyes are cameras, watching you vent
While you eat, walk, play your video games,
Or plan to overthrow the government.
The birds, battery-powered bots, take aim.
Have you ever examined their “feathers”?
Clearly, they are just recycled plastic.
Feel them – are they scales, skin or leather?
They’re neither natural nor fantastic!
So while we wait indoors for Covid’s end,
Remember – their lithium batteries
Are charging now, then our lives they’ll attend
And tattle on our overdue book fees.
by Heather Dawn
If I was a disgusting sky rat, undeserving of my graceful stance above the earth, what better hobby than to poop white sludge upon those annoying dwellers upon my turf!
I see the ranks of homing pigeons swoop and soar,
There’s gotta be a flocking thousand of ’em or more,
Wheeling o’erhead, hovering high above the low building I let,
Leasing the ‘penthouse’ out too cheap is one deep abiding regret.
I was glad to sign the lease for that seedy top floor-
A two-year ironclad deal’s what a landlord prays for,
But concern is building due to his installing a pigeon coop aloft,
It’s not the constant cooing from on high, more the elevated waft.
The whirring of the wings above is impossible to ignore,
The sourness of signing off on a bad deal sticks in my craw,
As birds keep landing on my landing my dim view’s turning dark,
Its not all their swooping but their pooping that’s leaving its mark.
grab some handy doves
fill them with helium gas
voila, some haiku
by Ruth Scribbles AKA Ruth Klein
There once was a bird who was seen
Hopping about on the green
He hopped on the feeder
And pooped on the weeder
The bird is no more he’s been creamed
Something to Crow About
by Geoff LePard
‘Sorry? Did you…?’
‘A crow. Yes.’
‘Right now “why” is more pressing.’
Jim Pale stood back. This was a joke. Some teen’s trick. Or one of those TV shows making a fool of him.
‘I’m neither a trick nor spoof TV.’ The crow sounded quite put out.
‘Did you read my mind?’
‘More your expression. It helps us survive to know what predators think.’
‘I’m not a predator.’
‘Not now you’ve got Lidl and a taste for cottage pie, but it’s not that long ago you ate my ancestors. A millennium is nothing in the life of a crow.’
‘You’re not one thousand years old.’
The crow grunted. ‘All I’m saying is I have to be desperate to speak to a human.’
Jim stepped back. ‘Why aren’t you flying?’
The crow sighed. ‘At bloody last. The “why” question.’
‘Look. If you want help, sarcasm is hardly going to encourage it.’
‘It’s in the name, moron. “crow”. It’s what we do. We could have been called sneers or eye-rolls but we stuck with crow as the name. It’s suggestive of superiority.’
Jim began to turn away.
‘Oh all right. I’m sorry. Okay? Does that make it better? You’re the dominant bloody species and I’m a sodding bird yet your skin is as thin as an anaemic slug.’
Jim coloured. ‘Sorry. How come you’re…? Actually, what are you doing? Hovering? Floating?’
‘I’m stuck. Frozen. Rendered immobile.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Really? You need to ask that? Geez, are you really as stupid as you look?’
‘No, hang on.’
‘Why should I? You’re a foul-mouthed…’
‘Are you saying I look like a chicken?’
‘Now who’s a numpty? Foul, with a “u”.’
‘It was a joke? Of course I don’t have a chicken’s mouth.’
Jim checked his watch. ‘I need to get on.’
‘All right. Bloody hell. Look, one minute I’m swooping down for that burger crust there, the next I’m here, in mid-beat like one of those ridiculous porcelain ducks you love to stick above your fireplaces.’
‘No one has flying ducks anymore.’
‘You looked in number seventy-two recently? She even has antimacassars. Can we stop this redundant intimacy? You said you were busy. Just see what’s stopping me flying, will you?’
Jim stepped forward. He looked around the suspended crow. ‘It looks like you have two strings holding you in place.’
Jim peered hard. ‘Actually there are more than two.’
‘Is it some sort of net?’
‘Noooo, more like puppet strings.’
‘I’m no one’s bloody puppet.’
Jim reached up and tugged at one. The crow’s left wing beat slowly.
‘Hey, stop that! Bloody cheek.’
‘You’re trussed up like a ch…’
‘Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it! Just cut me down and I’ll be on my way.’
‘How do I know I should? I mean I don’t know who you belong to, do I?’
‘Oh that’s great. I’ve just undermined your whole belief system by talking and showing you I can mind-read…’
‘Stop bloody quibbling. And now you question if I’m someone’s pet.’
Jim nodded. ‘Yes. Fair point.’ He reached up and touched the nearest wing.
The crow jerked away. ‘That tickles. Be firm, will you?’
‘You are touchy, aren’t you?’
‘Do you really need an answer to that?’
‘No, I suppose not. Here,’ he unhooked a string. Then another. After less than a minute the crow stood by Jim’s feet. ‘Better?’
‘I just want to know who did this. Bloody nerve. Right. I’d better be off.’ The crow turned and stretched its wings.
Jim said, ‘Are you going to say thank you or anything? Show your appreciation?’
The crow twisted its head and held Jim’s gaze for a moment. Then he took to the air and flew in a wide arc. As his flight path crossed where Jim stood he emptied his bowels in a white stream of avian faeces that hit Jim slap on the forehead.
Jim staggered back, stunned. ‘What was that for?’
The crow curved away cackling. ‘I thought you lot considered that to be lucky? Well, be lucky, Jim Pale. I hope it’ll mean you’ll have something to crow about.’
Blimey what are those birds doing
Oh it’s such seedy x-rated viewing
Really, on our back garden fence as well
Is it not behaviour best saved for a seedy motel
Surely they are spoiling our gorgeous farmland view
Interrupting our peaceful world with something so taboo
Spending every day exchanging birdie pleasantries
Always trying to make so many more feathered babies
Fooling around as if there is no tomorrow
Oh having such fun and never showing any sorrow
One overriding thought about those feathered huggers
Lashings of rummy pumpy, those lucky little buggers
by D. Avery @shiftnshake
Some birds we exalt, poeticize their flight
Romanticize both hawk and dove
Recognize in each their might
See in them what we most love.
Feathered birds with mythos, we heartily imbue
But hungry folk give a flying f***
When flights of fancy wheel towards food
Which fowl they might come to pluck.
Any bird, perched ‘pon the plate
In that bald, unfeathered state
In such a foul state we find ourselves
All together all alone
Even those with well stocked shelves
Might choke on eagle bones.
A Bird Flew into My Mouth
A bird flew in my mouth.
I gulped in horror.
If it were a mozzie,
But a bird
A wattlebird at that.
It panicked in the echo chamber of my mouth.
I wrestled it with both hands
Trying to pry it loose.
Suddenly it plopped out like a fish.
It staggered in the air.
I staggered along the path.
A bird in the mouth is worth two in the bush.
My friend quipped.
So how was it? He asked.
Surreal, I clucked. Surreal
A silly poem
A bird shat on our window pane,
Freshly washed, it took careful aim,
Streaking down the shiny glass
Jettisoned from its feathered a**,
Hubs was not impressed at all
The bloody thing having such gall,
‘Next time’, he said, ‘I’ll see you shot
As you’ll fit nicely in the pot!’
Thank you for entering!! Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt. I intend to try a caption contest for that one.
Ellen: Here’s my brand-new badge you can post as the winner:
©2020 The writers, and their respective works.