The Wren

Wren oh wren
You king of birds
Listen to me
And hear my words

Come right here
And fight me now
I'll take your crown
For this I vow

Although you have
A powerful voice
To me it's just
A dreadful noise

Your tail, that you
Stick in the air
Listen to me
It looks bad there

Your big long beak
You think so fine
It's awfully weak
Compared to mine

Your time has come
And you must die
As light's returning
To the sky

The world will turn
And now I thrive
And sadly you
Can't stay alive

The wren flew up
Into a tree
He sat quite still
And did not fee

The robin flew
Above the wren
And struck him
With his talons, then

Down the wren fell
And hit the ground
A lifeless body
People found
The robin sat
Upon the tree
A victory song
He sang to me.

Poem created by Tom Walters with Nick owen

Vote for our national bird or stay at home with family favourites..

Since we are not allowed to campaign today, I thought I would share Tom's family favourites poem with you. Check out the earlier posts we did on birds standing for election today . Maybe the poems we shared so far will help you make up your mind.

http://www.votenationalbird.com/#vote

My own Barn Owl shot

Candidates are

The Swan 

The Puffin

The Blackbird

The Wren (in progress)

The King fisher (my poem added here for interest)

The Red Kite

The Robin

The Hen Harrier

The Barn Owl

The Blue Tit

Family Favourites                                   by  Tom

A Wispa is delicious

They’re very very nice

And although you’ll think I’m vicious

I would steal yours in a trice.

There’s one thing I would like to own

A nice delicious Toblerone

I wouldn’t give it to my mum

‘Cos even though she’d give me some

I know that I would eat it all

That Toblerone is very small

I wish the Toblerone was bigger

I’d  have to fetch it in a digger

My brother, he likes Jelly Tots

And though he likes them lots and lots

They often bring him out in spots

And then he’ll have to go to bed

Especially if the spots are red

And go to sleep like mummy said

But if the spots are also blue

We won’t know what we’ll have to do

But hope he vomits in the loo

I think I’d like to eat your toes

They’d taste much nicer than your nose

I don’t think they would taste delicious

Even if they are nutritious

I think they might be tasty food

But only if I’m in the mood

My own poem adds the Barn Owl and the Kingfisher to the mix

Sadly we did not finish poems on the other birds in time for election day.

King Fisher

Today I saw the kingfisher

Resplendent in a tree

This is really something

That makes a difference to me

Oh, I have seen a badger

That came begging at my door

I saw him round the wheely bins

A hundred times or more

The first time that I saw him

Was a very big surprise

Opening my back door

To his big soft upturned eyes

And I have seen three foxes

At a moon-lit mile cross meet

Each departing different ways

From my approaching feet

And I have known two barn owls

As companions on the road

Flying along beside me

Like a destiny bestowed

I used to see the kingfisher

Blue arrow down the river

Each time I saw his brilliant hew

My body gave a shiver

But now I've seen the Kingfisher

Go diving in the stream

Did he catch a tiny trout

Was this my Fisher King

Contentedly he flew past me

Wings bluer than the sky

And could it be, he winked at me

As he swept by

At last I watched the kingfisher

Go perching in a tree

This is really something

Makes all the difference to me

  

Copyright Nick Owen

The swan: another candidate for our National Bird

The Swan

Look at the swan.

He won’t be gone

He’s only busking.

Look at the swan.

He won’t be gone

He’s just a busking.

The swan is lifting up his wings,

Immense and white and powerful things.

Above the water feathers sweep,

Enough to make the fearful weep.

For when these wings begin to flap

He really is a scary chap.

These dreadful wings make such a threat;

And does it scare me?  Yes.  You bet.

He does this busking every day

So nothing bad can come his way.

He isn’t bothered by a boat.

He hates some other things that float.

And fish and birds, and you and me

He hates them all, most things he sees

His long and pointy orange beak

Is like a snowy mountain peak.

Although we cannot see his feet

They are still going, beat, beat, beat

But if the breathing was to stop

The swan would shout, “Oh.  Fizzle Pop.”