With passionate prose in every caw
Prior to which I had never heard
Thought it to be the Crow until I saw
A noisy,well perched Mocking Bird
A sly master of most every calling song
Sounding just like the wise old Crow
Drawn to your cawing for ever so long
Ever so far from the paths I well know
Standing now in your crowded glade
Issuing my own loud greeting call
Then begin to tell of my journey made
Ever so weary yet still standing tall
Interrupted and told not to look up at you
I lowered not my eyes and backed away
Towards the path that I once knew
Never again to hear what you say
Swayed off that path by a friendly sound
And seemingly wise well put cawing words
Not in the least bit surprised by what I found
In that distant glade full of Mockingbirds