No sooner had I said it—
Even 'fore you'd read it—
The story of the parrot of my brother's
Which I wrote up in a Spot,
T's a-crossed and I's a-dot,
Had been topped by sundry multifeathered others.
For from every which direction
Came, with parroted inflection,
The stories of a million other birds
With greater deeds by far,
And exploits more bizarre—
And fluency in myriads of words.
I know a Tony and a Ken
Who had a parrot way back when
Adept at imitative ventriloquism:
That bird would reproduce
Any voice heard in the hoose—
Whether on the phone, or in pure soliloquism.
Cuz there were times that parrot-keet
To a corner would retreat—
I'm telling you that this is no baloney—
And carry on, with animation,
An entire conversation
To himself, in the voices of Ken and Tony.
Furthermore, this bird
Every morning could be heard
To call, by name, each man and dog, "Get up!"
But the day Snickers passed away
Was the last they heard it say
The name of that departed, cherished pup.
And John Jamison, I've heard,
At one time had a bird
Who, even when in danger, could be witty:
When treed once by a cat,
From the branch on which it sat
It kept scolding its pursuer, "Ba-a-ad kitty!"
Yup, no sooner had I said it—
Long before you'd read it—
My brother's parrot's story had been topped;
So the Spot of which I speak
(Which you likely read last week)
Can summarily and totally be dropped!
—Anon A. Mouse