Birds, or: How I Learned to Stop Loving and Worry about the Bomb

I once had a bird,
And I loved it, and fed it well.

Other birds,
Became jealous of the attention I got.

So they flew over,
And made nests in my garden.

And they made little eggs,
But little did I know,
They were my bird's little eggs.

And they ate my food,
And drank my water,
So I shot them,
And made bird pie.

My bird was so distressed,
She flew into the next garden over,
And though we called to each other every day,
She refused to come over.

So I shot her,
And made bird pie.

Then there were no birds,
In my garden,
So i cried.

Then one day I saw a bird in another garden,
And I told her I had lots of grain,
And she liked grain
So she came over by night,
And ate my grain,
But then i had no grain,
Because i was still bitter about losing my first bird,
So i shot her as well,
And made bird pie.

And now I have lots of bird pie,
And no birds,
And the problem is,
I like birds,
But i'm sick of bird pie.