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 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.