Ian the Giggler

Ian the giggler really loves birds
Sometimes he struggles to find the right words
He finds he’s at sixes, sevens, quarters and thirds
But his love still shines like the moon

Ian the giggler is getting on now
But all his life he has lived by the vow
To adore and to love the birds that make him say “wow”
They make the flowers in his heart bloom

But now he is reaching pensionable age
The one thing that makes him fly into rage
Is the suggestion that he must now leave the stage
And allow younger men room

To carry on boldly with his life’s work
To sidestep the oldies and revel in the perks
Of birds all day long, well he feels such a berk
But today he received the letter of doom

Numbered now are the days
When Ian can enjoy all those ways
To enjoy the time with the birds’ all he craves
But a birdless life looms

No more spoonbill or tits
No more ducks, coots swifts
No more birds, he loved them to bits
All taken away far too soon

One Sunday morning, just after one
Ian couldn’t drop off, now that the time had come
To realise that he’d done all that could ever be done
That it was time to enter the gloom

Now a dull young man works in his place
With spots and disinterest all over his face
The zoo is giggle free and a much duller place
Now Ian lies in his tomb