There were cockies by the hundred in the old oak’s lofty limb,
And their mealtime was a mêlée as the evening light grew dim.
For they chomped with grand abandon in the forest of the leaves,
And an avalanche of acorns rained around these raucous thieves.
Now it seemed that table manners had been long ago forgot
As the noisy winged marauders sought to eat the bloomin’ lot.
There was never thought of stopping when a bird had had enough:
For the yellow-crested cocky, dinner time was always rough!
But there came the hour of evening, as the sun sank slow from view,
That the world prepared for slumber – and that meant the cockies too!
With the repast now behind them and ahead, the dark till dawn,
Every bird would sound be sleeping till the first rays of the morn.
Written by David Sheath. QLD