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Miss Polly, a church organist,
trained her budgie to waltz
to the tunes of Franz Liszt
by rewarding him milk chocolate.
Then, one day, he attempted The Twist,
a dance that he fancied but hadn't practised
and his little legs weren't up to it.
He developed a 10 degree list
then hopped round in circles
as if he were pissed
and ended up arse over tit.
As soon as his mistress noticed
that her pet budgerigar seemed
somewhat distressed
her response was immediate.
She painted on lipstick and dressed
in a ruched satin frock she considered the best
for rushing a bird to the vet.
To Doctor Bob's clinic she raced
with her feathery favourite snugly encased
in a tea-caddy padded with velvet.
She grabbed the receptionist.
'Quick! Summon your very best bird specialist!'
'We don't have one,' Marg had to admit.
'We do have a pedicurist.
(If you ask me - more a foot fetishist.)
He might do if you're desperate.' |
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But my pet needs a vet we can
trust.
Please call Doctor Robert for, surely, he must
be the best man to look at my pet.'
Soon the bad doctor was traced.
Stripped to the waist and downright shamefaced
he emerged from the ladies' toilet.
He looked at the bird in disgust.
'Why, his shins are both fractured,
his knapper concussed
and his beak's in a terrible state.'
'I'm afraid I shall have to insist
on removing both legs - they'll barely be missed
though his dancing may suffer a bit.'
After three dreadful hours had passed,
The bird woke up legless, his beak in a cast.
His mistress was very upset.
Miss Polly has learned to her cost
that, in training small birds, little legs can be lost.
Now her organ's her only comfort.
But the budgie's a true optimist.
In a tiny wheelchair that Miss Polly purchased
he flaps up and down quite a bit.
He's trying to dance to the tunes of Franz Liszt,
still hoping for milk chocolate.
But all he can do now is sit. |
