Poem of the Week 21

Bird-Table Blues

Clare Bevan


In Winter, Grandma feeds the birds

With kindly thoughts and friendly words,

And biscuit crumbs, and broken baps,

And bacon rinds, and breakfast scraps,

And plates of freshly buttered toast,

And bags of chips, and Sunday roast,

And dumplings (huge and hot and steamy),

And home-made pies, and gravy (creamy),

And every sort of cheese and bread,

Until each hungry bird is fed

To BURSTING point, to bitter end,

Until their legs begin to bend,

Until they cannot flap or fly,

Until they simply want to die,

Until they roll around the floor

And weakly twitter, ‘Stop! No more!’


Then Grandma smiles and says ‘Oh good.

I think they’re ready for their pud.’




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