O birds, fly about with body weatherproof
Zip through a tree like a motorized poof
Be a small impresario of a leaf
And burble like you've never known grief
Unless you are a crow in which case you will gurgle
As if every crow-moment were a monumental hurdle
Yes a crow is like a monosyllabic singer of blues
Everything is basically what the crow rues

O birds, whether you are big and fly like a bag of millet
Or are small and whang like a bullet
Please know that we look on you enviously
And most of us would love to fly about like you so vigorously
Which is frankly why a lot of us will drive around in cars as if we 
        had no legs
And are perfectly happy to drive rather than walk a 100 yards just to
        pick up 12 or 18 eggs

Yes, birds, be happy that you are not us
Who are lazy and to whom the opposite of driving is not walking it 
        is taking a bus
And that is why I think you give us pleasure, yup,
Being such cocained industrialists of the direction up