Birdsong - Written a long time ago

Yes, all the poets think it is fine

To have raw sunlight wake them at dawn,

And to hear the simply delightful throng,

Of a random airborne singalong.

Indeed musicians say there flames are fired,

On hearing birdsong, yes inspired

By constant tweeterings far above their head

With the odd screech or wail when they're trying to sleep in bed.

Yes, everyone seems to think it amazing,

Myself, I thank God for double glazing.

Perhaps they never walked home late,

After supping from the vine,

Then the morning chorus doesn't seem as great

Its not pleasant music, it's a constant, droning whine,

The same pitched tweet, with a different beat,

In some harmonial discord.

Without timing, tune, life nor soul,

Its like a steps record