THE BIRD WATCHER

On my walk to Tennyson’s,
I stumbled on a man
A hunter, not of venison!
Of birds, he was a fan

So charming did I find this sight
Of hobbyist and glass
I pulled my fountain pen to write,
Like some pretentious ass

But fore I could jot down the scene
That so inspired joy,
He put the spyglass to his lips
Like baby to a toy!

A starling soared right past the man,
(Who smelled for all of grape)
No chance was missed, for now I saw
Not telescope… but vape!