[Very contrived. Horrendously rhymie. Just a little bit of fun.]
Magpie dreams, as it would seem,
are full of corn and fields of green
grasses, which, as sure as not
provide a pleasant picnic spot.
Gorging on a feast of grubs
and insects picked off waiting shrubs,
they screech and crow their tuneless songs
and squabble hard the whole day long.
Till night descends, when then they rise,
with weary wings and glazing eyes,
to perches high up in the trees:
they hide away from wind's chill breeze.
Then, when morning comes with short delay,
they muse upon the waiting day
and hope that what awaits their schemes
are meals as rich as in their dreams.
