To the delightful sounds of the mynah, I wake,
By the window, waiting for the lazy sun to show,
There is more madness to it than I can take,
So, I rise from my bed, yet a bit lazy and slow.
There it is a bird of black, tirelessly screeching
Jumping up and down all the time.
It wants me to talk sense into the pigeons wobbling
Up and down the windows struggling to fall in line.
Every man’s out to feed them food, he says
Birds that are born to tirelessly grumble
He cannot understand the human ways,
He says if I do, it makes him feel humble.
I say I don’t, I say I share his pain and more,
I say it is in the pigeon’s nature to always sound sore,
I tell him he, the mynah, is among birds a bard,
A gifted creation, out of His mind’s most obscure card,
That He worked to perfect in every move and tweet,
Let all the world be sore, but he should choose to be sweet!