PLUMED PUB:

“Where are you going to grandpa?” asked the wee little lad,

“I´m off to a place where you can´t go,” said his old granddad,

“Can I come?” asked the boy, “or am I still too small to go?”

“Lad, I am going to the plumed pub, where the nectar flows”.

“I am off to where the quails quaff & the ebon starlings sip,

Where goslings guzzle, in that place where dewdrops drip,

I am going where white swans sup & briny blackbirds booze,

I´m off to where the hummingbirds drink from nectar´s ooze.”

“I´m going to where all little birds gather together & daily meet,

Those of plumes, nebs, beaks, clawed talons & little webbed feet,

I am going to where they celebrate life, with a daily drink or two,

From river, lake, pond, falling rain, birdbath & early morning dew.”

“Grandpa, can´t I come with you, to the pub of pretty plumes?”

“Lad you´re still too young, to sing cacophonies of drunken tunes,

When you grow a bit more & learn all their musical magic words,

Then you´ll be invited, to that drinking place of feathered birds.”

“I am off now to that plumed pub, of all those who soar & fly,”

Where all the drinkers gather, under old gentle trees that sigh,

To that very special place, where plumed friends imbibe together,

Welcoming all those of musical throats & hued colouful feather.”