Impatience, that bird won’t wait,
to land upon this comtem-plate.
Yet, it drinks from half the saucer,
builds a nest (this sure aint Chaucer)
Feathers ruffle my hair instead
of flying off to worthier wordier fates,
and just to make the writing worse,
it even tries to peck my v….>O
Then sicks it up with chirped disdain,
and ..erse repeats; oh, to start again.