The Starling

As I sat here to solve a puzzle,
With my water bottle near to guzzle,
Hidden beneath the trusty umbrella to block out the sun,
Suddenly there came a chirping,
Louder than bullfrogs a-burping,
Into my quiet mood usurping,
Usurping thoughts from my fun.
"Who makes such a noxious racket,
Chirping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

I looked up to see this noisy bird,
Seating there, dropping an avian turd,
Upon the chair opposite me, which hence all should shun.
That is so very disgusting,
To attack a chair so trusting;
The chair back now was encrusting,
Encrusting crud from this hun.
"Where is your shame, you dirty fowl,
Dropping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

He flew away without my shooing,
As his excrement sat there gooing,
Semi-solid, not quite fluid, just enough to start to run.
With napkin I went to wiping,
Up and down I went on swiping.
The plain brown chair now had striping,
Striping to bake in the bright sun.
"Who will want your added feature,
Piping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

Long have I lingered on vacation,
Retirement has brought much cessation.
My leisure may have lost more than my relaxation has won.
The black bird who got me versing,
As a contemplating cursing,
Perhaps enleashed passion bursting,
Bursting to release rhyme and fun.
"Who would want my silly poems,
After a year which had none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."