So what is this nightingale
    of which the old poets sing?

I drive to country dykes, to dust,
    and hear a throat of motorway.

I climb a Munro hill, by rail,
    and hear the tourist café chat.

I dive the barrier reef's remains
    and hear an abstract diesel chant.

Those poets,
they blaze their praise
of this bird I've not heard.

I think, you know, the nightingale's an allergy
to dance, or punk, or what the poet hates,
the one that he or she desires,
appreciates.

So next you find an ode
to a nightingale's airy delight,
make your thoughts Sir Oswald Osbourne
biting the head off a chicken that night.