ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

The Unhappy Magpie

© Stephen Whiteside 16.09.2012

There once was an unhappy magpie.
Disgruntled. Unsettled. Depressed.
But he warbled along, and he sang a great song.
He was musical, like all the rest.

Yet he was a dissatisfied magpie,
And he woke in the morning too soon.
It was hours too early but, bitter and surly,
He sang his complaints to the moon.

The moon heard the mis’rable magpie,
And did what the moon always does.
It hung in the sky like an unblinking eye,
Like an uncle, or brother, or cuz’.

And though our misfortunate magpie
Worked hard to sound sour and mean,
He failed completely. He sang out so sweetly,
With notes that were sparkling and clean.

The moon dipped its lid to the magpie,
Vacating the sky for the sun.
And still our friend sang until, joined by the gang,
It was clear that the day had begun.

And still sang the misfitting magpie,
Though the nightjars and frogmouths now slept.
He sang a high praise to the sun’s golden rays,
And deep in his breast his heart leapt.

Or if Quentin Tarantino was writing it:

A man awakened by a magpie
When not even a faint glow of sun
In the east could be seen, said: “for this you will die!”,
And then blew its head off with his gun.

The man who directed 'Pulp Fiction'
Is hard, but the way to his heart
Is a magpie with excellent diction
Who gives the new day a bright start.

The moon shone above the horizon.
The dawning had barely begun.
But Quentin, a fan of late risin',
Had already loaded his gun.

Woken from beautiful dreaming,
His body was seething with rage.
The death of the bird he was scheming,
But the singer had turned a new page

In the life of the tough Tarantino.
The music was awfully sweet.
He cooked up a hot cappuccino,
To sip with the song. What a treat!

Alas, for this home-styled barista,
Not certain just how it was done;
Too hot, and it threw up a blister.
He turned once again for his gun.

The magpie whose singing was nice
Had now slipped away to its nest.
He put down the gun for some ice
For his lip. It was all for the best.

Poor old maggies - don't know what people have against them

Two great poems Stephen - was he trying to put the Kookaburra out of business calling up the sun?

I love the morning chorus here near the river. So much activity and noise from the little avian people - when you sleep in you tend to miss it.

Cheers

Maureen

Thanks, Maureen. I bent the truth a little here, because the birds had well and truly stopped before the sun came up.

I overheard an interesting conversation recently comparing magpies and kookaburras. Kookaburras always seem very special to me, because magpies are a dime a dozen around here. The consensus of these two, though, was that nothing compared to the uplifting song of the magpie.

Down here, of course, the magpies are singing with the swans, the hawks and the crows. The kookaburras had their chance at the the Olympics.