The robin is not chirping cheerily of cheeriness,
nor is the chestnut-sided warbler pleased to meet you.
The black-throated green warbler
does not croon of murmuring trees.
The song sparrow is not inviting you
to put on the kettle for tea.

Each tiny indignant property-rights advocate
sitting in his tree or straddling his fence
is hollering loud and clearly:
Out of here, quickly.
Flee, flee, or I’ll shoot you.
These are my trees.
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll skeedaddle.

The red-eyed vireo says it plain:
Here I am;  where are you?
This is mine;  go away.

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