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Ferd.


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There is this bird I know,
Not quite a friend, but a foe.
He follows me as I go,
Trying to put on a little show.

I call him Ferd.
He is a feisty bird.
He's a bit of a perve,
And quite frankly gotten on my last nerve.

He swoops and swerves and dives,
Nearly poking me in the eye.
“Get away!” I shout and cry.
“I just want to exercise!”

He doesn't listen, no Ferd does not;
He continues harassing me as I trot,
Coming at me with all he's got.
It annoys me quite a lot.

Every morning I swear Ferd waits,
Watching anxiously for my gait,
Wondering if I will be late.
The sight of him fills me with hate.

Some days I cannot stand it!
His chirping and lurking steals my peace like a bandit.
He's persistent, I've got to hand it,
But I wish that he would can it!

I would just like to run
Without his annoying idea of fun.
I am going to buy a gun,
Then this will all be done.




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