There Should be a Bird Called a Poet

There should be a bird called a poet.
What would its plumage be?
Would it twitter away in ducktyls?
Would both sexes sing, he and she?

I ask, having read in the news
how poets have twittered on twitter
demanding an airing for views
that are growing increasingly bitter

re The Poetry Soc's upper twigs.
On Facebook, forsaking their crumbs,
they're coming together in gigs -
their harmony baffles and numbs.

They're demanding that birds that have flown
the nest in frustration and pique
should be reinstated and shown
that the board, not the poets, are weak.

So what of my bird called a poet?
It should have some teeth in its beak,
teeth it reserves for the nest -
to use them outside is not chic.

Its feathers would end disarrayed,
it would stagger around on mixed feet,
any rondo or sonnet it made
would nose dive into the street.

So you'll not find it out where it matters,
doing battle with giants or a troll,
a world grown hungry, in tatters;
but twittering tunes that lull.

(For background: see here)