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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420140" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Owd To A Nightingale</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420140" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It was quiet in the park, <br>after lunch, the crowds are few.<br>Here the statures live in terror<br>because of what we pigeons do..<br>We’re adept at carpet bombing.<br>pets and people feel our wrath.<br>Our bowels are like loose cannons-<br>Don’t dare venture in our path.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420140" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Now, below, I see a poet<br>with pen in hand composing.<br>Intent upon the songbird’s tune<br>or perchance he’s merely dozing</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420140" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">His senses lulled by cricket’s song, <br>He perspires in the heat.<br>My calling card left on his suit.<br>says chose a different seat.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+F.+McCullagh">John F. McCullagh</a></strong></div>

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