Past old Mallard Street,

with a sharp turn after the pond,

You’ll find a house there. 

Repair, it’s beyond.

You’ll find stumps of old wood, 

And shards of broken glass. 

Poor thing has been misunderstood, 

Ever since the Birdwiffs family passed. 

I’ve lost and lost and lost again,

But the Birdwiffs pass,

Has been the hardest loss yet. 

It’s legend you know, 

Did they ever die? 

Some people say so,

While most fowls heartly deny.  

I’ve fought and I’ve cawed for wealth and for rings,

And I’ve found myself cold in ancient remains. 

But nowhere I’ve gone with my black wings,

Compared to the riches of the Birdwiff plains.  

I’ve lost and lost and lost again,

But the Birdwiffs pass, 

Has been the hardest loss yet. 

There in the plains, the bodies were abundant and free!

My belly was full and all my friends were all humming!

But, there was one thing my poor bird brain couldn’t see, 

That to the Birdwiffs, the killing was unbecoming. 

Theories have been thrown about where the Birdwiffs ended up,

I’ve heard some claim ‘prison’ or ‘six feet under’. 

But this old vulture prefers to not think in a slump,

That they are in a place to pillage and of wonder. 

I’ve lost and lost and lost again,

But the Birdwiffs pass,

Has been the hardest loss yet. 

Though my belly rumbles louder with each fly past their house,

And every gunshot firing is a song to my ears, 

The Birdwiffs might have just gone south,

And maybe they will be here next year.