By him alone I was forced to fly.
Alone he scolds each time I fall,
and I wonder how a head so big
can hold a brain so small.
Not all birds are so dense as he,
though of his ignorance he is proud,
this foul featherbrained fiend of flight
of the call so painfully loud.
He does not heed my calls nor cries
of how this mockery is unfair.
Nor does he seem to understand
these fins weren’t made for air.
With a flit and a flutter here and there
up and down he flew.
With a gaudy caw he began to mock,
"I can do it! Why can’t you?"
"You," I say, "with your wings of air
can of course take to the sky,
but me down here in my small pond,
I was not made to fly."
Of course I can still hear his voice
from this small pond of mine.
Though the bird may crow it’s good to know
that I can swim just fine.