A Christmas birding carol

Good King Wenceslas looked out,
On the fields of Sennen,
Where a pipit ran about,
Deep in mud and even,
Birders came throughout the night,
Though they couldn’t name it,
When one fellow came in sight
Gathering up the bird’s shit.

“Hither Doctor stand by me,
Analyse the faeces,
Yonder Pipit who is he,
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire he flew a good league hence,
And I can name his Daddy,
He didn’t hop a local fence,
Came from an eastern paddy.”

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