Nothing to Crow About

Six days a week they stay aloof
And congregate upon the roof.
These earnest gentlemen in black
Perch proudly on each chimney stack.
Tis in the mind of every crow
To sneer upon the fools below.

But Thursday morn, the little tramps
Come flying down from roofs and lamps,
And round the wheelie bins they buzz
Before the tardy bin truck does.
And if the lids should be ajar,
They pull the rubbish near and far.

I don’t know what the reason is
For such a metamorphosis,
Six long days, they’re proud and haughty,
But on the seventh, very naughty.
Psychologists should mark my words
And study schizophrenic birds.

There is a cure, some people find,
For these poor birds of unsound mind
To stop them preying on our waste
With such unseemly, frenzied haste.
Don’t overfill your bin – just put
Enough trash in so it can shut.