A Logophile’s Ode

I know it’s daft to talk to birds

And ornaments and seasons too

But nonetheless I’ll voice these words

Addressing now each one of you


First, nightingale: I love your name!

It’s what I love the most in you

It would be such a dreadful shame

If you were called the cockatoo


And you, O taciturn Hellene

So redolent of ancient times

I’d smash you into smithereens

If that would yield a pithy rhyme


Now Autumn, last, though not the least

Whose boughs with fruity clichés bend

Your bounty is a verbal feast

With indigestion at the end

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