Welsh Journals

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OUR BUDGIE Our budgie lives in a cage of wire Equipped to please his each desire; He has a little ladder to climb And he's up and down it all the time, And a little mirror in which he peeps As he utters his self-admiring cheeps, And two little pink plastic budgie mates Whom he sometimes loves and sometimes hates, And a little bell, all made of tin With which be makes a merry din, Though sometimes, when things aren't going well, lie hides his head inside the bell. His feathers are a brilliant green And take most of his time to preen. His speech is limited and blurred But he doesn't do badly, for a bird. And though he can but poorly talk If you ignore him he'll squawk and squawk And fly into a fearful rage And rattle the bars of his pretty cage But he won't get out, he'll never try it, And a cloth on the cage will keep him quiet. This futile bird, it seems to me, Would make a perfect Welsh M P. Harri Webb