What's all the fuss about vultures,
Flying machines and nature's janitors,
Who boldly clean up the messes of death,
Without a single thank you ever?
We should count ourselves lucky,
That these birds can stomach corpses,
Removing the stink from the land,
Leaving nothing to waste.
Little credit is given to their flight,
The kind that soars for hours on end,
And demonstrates the strongest wings,
With no signs of tiring or fatigue.
But so many people are convinced
That vultures feed off of suffering,
As well as on the bodies of the dead,
And everyone in a greedy position,
From politicians to the press,
Are named after these innocent aves.
But vultures are among the best fliers
In the entire bird kingdom,
And they are also strong survivors,
Immune to most sicknesses and ticks,
And have such natural beauty that they
Should have the same respect as an eagle.
So do us vulture-lovers a favor;
Find another name for the filth of mankind.
For why should nature's perfect garbage men
Get the whole of humankind's bad press?