Hurry Scurry
Gleaming in the sunset field, strutting himself around
Mr Pheasant knows he is beautiful plump, fat and proud
Not the brightest of the bunch, running from any foe
Eating seeds and berries without a single woe
Oh no, Farmers coming! Quick better scurry
Noisily launching himself in a flap and a hurry
A blast of noise and a bullet of clay
With surprise our fellow survives another day!
All artwork and poems copyright protected by the Artist. Sarah Reilly, Love Country by Sarah Reilly. All rights reserved.
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