´óÏó´«Ã½

Oh, how sweet the mocking bird sounds
As it soars above the ground
Yet, why does it crow at me as I run?
Whilst chasing a butterfly in the afternoon sun

As it mocks me with its chants
It looks meaningfully at the plants
Of which I run along beside
As it soars joyously in the skies

The name of my taunter has the answer
Mocking bird is its name
It mocks me as I trot along on foot
Wide along the country lane

For whilst it sings its haunting sounds
As it skims the fluff topped clouds
I struggled to keep up, was what I found
Confined, solitarily to the rising ground

I knew now the reason: my feet, his wings
I start to tire as he sings
While he can fly without a sound
I am restricted to the ground

I start to tire, I slow, I trundle
And collapse upon a golden bundle
Of leaves golden brown and green
The mocking bird stops to watch the scene

My heart a-pounding, hair like wool of cattle
His eyes tell me that he has won the battle
My feet stand no chance against his wings
Darkness falls and he starts to sing

As I lie in bed that night, a bird sings below
I get up and take a look, as the darkness begins to grow

Oh, how sadly the mockingbird sings
As he tucks his head under his wings
I am safe and warm inside
He is alone in the world, cold and wide