MEAN old buzzard on the heights,
           Why you fill me with such frights?
Will you eat me if I fall?
           I don’t like that, not at all.

The chicken hawk he ate my friend
           And his sister, in the end.
They were very chick-like, see,
           But what that buzzard want with me?

He must come from a nasty place
           To glare with such a pointy face
Upon a quaking mortal wight
           wound tight with such primordial fright.

He circles round my cave all day,
           Till my thoughts begin to fray.
I curse him, hex him, evil eye,
           Hoping that his brain will fry

Up there under air so blue.
           Tell me, can you see him too?
I ‘fraid he won’t leave me alones
           Till he munches on my bones,

Slurps out my eyes, gnaws on my toes,
           What else he do -- don'wanna knows!
Me thinks I'll have to move quite soon
           Underneath a bright full moon

And flee and fly and flit away
           In night which standeth next to day
With Mars and Hale-Bopp watching me
           Fleeing from that buzzard tree.

I’ll send a letter to distant lands
           Written by my shaky hands
In which I write six little words:
           ''There's no use fighting hungry birds.''

But if I had to make some sense
           For tasty mortals coming hence:
The moral, friend, is beat retreat
           When you become a thing to eat.