Oh little bird with such sweet sound,
Why do you sit upon the ground,
When you could soar and flit and flutter,
And get away from all the clutter,
Which threatens peace and clouds the mind,
And deafens ears and makes eyes blind?

I hear you singing from your tree.
Your music seems to beckon me.
To fly would be a lovely thing,
To soar above on feathered wings,
To escape from that which plagues me so,
And chuckle at the ground below.

Alas, dear bird, it cannot be,
For I am bound by Gravity.