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The Bird Rescue Center seems all bright glory
But it is nothing like you have been told
I warn you, it can be quite gross and gorey
And in winter all but the birds are cold
Dishes are how I spend much of my time,
At the sight of cold bloody mice I sigh,
And I struggle to purge walls of their grime
I sometimes wish for home, I won’t lie
Ever constant are the babies’ loud hungers,
Desperate I run when a bird breaks free,
And I’ve held one or two stubborn biters
At end of shift I’m as tired as can be
But each time as I watch birds again take wing
I know my work is the most perfect thing