The Undiscovered Ire Lets It Fly

by Barbara Lydecker Crane

The alphabet of monosyllabirds
doesn’t mention me, though chirpy words
announce the Auk, Brant, Crow, Dove,
Erne, Finch, Gull, the Hawk above,
(I should be right here in this array;
I’m somewhat short, in iridescent gray),
then Jay, Kite, Lark, the common Murre
(without discerning taste like mine, I’m sure),
some pale-faced Nuns and catatonic Owls
who come alive to terrify on prowls.
Peeps are sweet, and also clucking Quails,
but I avoid the marsh, with shrieking Rails.
Shrikes impale their prey on thorns (those ghouls),
while British Tits do bounce about like fools.
From A to T, no letter is omitted
save for mine. From birth, I’ve been be-snitted.
So now that you have met this Ire, please
include an ‘I’ in ranks of Avianese.
And while you’re at it, might you find me mates
to save me from my bachelor Ire straits?

 

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