Till up beside the Parrots Cage,
I stood to view the scene,
They was lovely parrots,
Beautiful blue and green,
In and out the nestbox,
They was really having fun,
Squawking out and flying about,
All except for one.

One poor old puffed-up parrot,
Clung grimly to his perch,
And as the wind blew frontwards,
Backwards he would lurch,
One foot up in his feathers,
Abandoned by the rest,
He sat there, plainly dying,
His head upon his chest.

Well, I walked on down the pathway
And I stroked a nanny goat,
But the thought of parrots dyin'
Brought a lump into me throat,
I could no longer stand it,
And to the office I fled,
Politely I began: 'Scuse me,
Your parrot's nearly dead."
  So me and a curator,
In urgent leaps and bounds,
With a bottle of Parrot Cure,
Dashed across the grounds,
The dust flew up around us,
As we reached the Parrots Pen,
And the curator he turned to me
Saying 'Which one is it then?"

You know what I am going to say,
He was not there at all,
At least, not where I left him,
No, he flit from wall to wall,
As brightly as a button,
Did he squawk and jump and leap,
The curator was very kind,
Saying, "I expect he was asleep."

But I was humiliated,
As I stood before the wire,
The curator went back,
To put his feet up by the fire,
So I let the parrot settle,
And after a short search,
I found the stick the yobbos had,
And poked him off his perch.
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