"The Prince and the Little Bird"

Sing, Little Bird, to your heart's content–
We all love to hear the song of your merriment.
But when the world is quiet and you're alone in your nest,
What's that sad tune that falls from your quivering breast?

The sun rises for morning, as it's wont to do,
And it waves its shining rays to happily greet you
As you shake off last night's weariness for the brand new day,
Previous worries and woes, in the light, seeming to melt away.

You leap from your perch and glide over the lake still
To land ever so carefully on the Prince's windowsill.
You tap with a chirp on the clear windowpane
As your beady eyes glance in on what the room contains.

A room so orderly it looks touched by the pure,
In walked the Prince, handsome features well matured
As he caught sight of the Little Bird and ran to open up,
Seeds in offering held tightly in a little paper cup.

"Sing," says he softly, "to your heart's content–
We all love to hear the song of your merriment.
But when the world is quiet and you're alone in your nest,
What's that sad tune that falls from your quivering breast?"

Bobbing this way and that, the to and the fro,
You eat quickly and twitter before preparing to go
And leave the Prince to his all important tasks,
Ignoring the curious question that he always asks.

He watches you in disappointment as you leave him yet again,
And he sighs before closing the window to his feathered friend.
He doesn't catch the sad glance you cast to his back,
And how poor Little Bird's little heart starts to crack.

Full with seed and sorrow, you explore the tranquil garden,
Passing the ladies and the lads with a quiet tweet of pardon
As you sweep just above their faces and envy them all
For the way the Prince is always there to answer their calls.

So sing, Little Bird, to your heart's content–
We all love to hear the song of your merriment.
But when the world is quiet and you're alone in your nest,
What's that sad tune that falls from your quivering breast?

The song you sing is merry even when you're not as such,
Because you feel the whole wide world has expected you quite so much.
You cannot stop to weep, or your feathers will ruffle coarse,
And your throat will constrict with tears at your beloved chorus.

You sing it all for him, don't you, fair Little Bird?
You sing and sing and sing in the hopes you will be heard.
'Tis a shame you are so wronged when you don't deserve to be,
A beautiful skylark such as you, nestled up in that old tree.

Tonight you feel the winter taking hold of your last breath,
And the darkness starts to beckon you to the hands of Death.
The last, sad note you utter on that dreadful moonless night
Sent quite a horrid shudder through our hearts come morning light.

Sing, Little Bird, to your heart's content–
We all love to hear the song of your merriment.
But when the world is quiet and you're alone in your nest,
What's that sad tune that falls from your quivering breast?

Sing, Little Bird . . .