The Ballad of the Bird, the Bovine, and the Beast

Once there was a bird, flying south for the chill,
But winter’s breath bit, and it lost all its will.
It spiraled to earth, frozen stiff as a plank,
And crash-landed kerplop in a barn that just stank.

“Oh woe is me,” the poor birdie did say,
“My wings are like popsicles; death’s on its way!”
Then came along Bessie, the cow with a moo,
Who sniffed at the bird and thought, "What to do?"

She pondered a moment, then let out a splatter—
A steaming hot cowpie, a truly gross platter.
The bird, now buried in a mound of brown doom,
Gagged and gasped, "What a stinky, smelly tomb!"

But lo! That foul warmth started thawing his toes,
And life returned to his wings, his beak, and his nose.
Peeking up through the poop, he chirped, “What a win!
This crap’s not so bad; I’m alive once again!”

Filled with delight, he burst into song,
Not thinking for a second, "What could go wrong?"
For lurking nearby, with ears sharp and keen,
Was Whiskers the cat, a sleek killing machine.

The feline approached, with a grin oh-so sly,
“Such a tasty tune; now where is my pie?”
With claws that could sift through a mountain of muck,
He unearthed the bird with a swift little pluck.

The bird gave a gasp, “Wait, this isn’t right!”
But the cat just smirked, “It’s your last song tonight.”
And so, with a gulp, the bird met its fate,
Leaving the cat full and feeling first-rate.

Moral, dear friends, let this tale give you pause:

When crap hits your feathers, don’t sing; take a cause.

The one who dumps on you might help you survive,

While the one who “rescues” you might not let you thrive.

So if you’re warm in the mess and things feel just right,
Keep your beak shut tight, and enjoy the night.