Way atop a Sycamore tree
a black bird’s call reiterates
his three syllable poetry.
Caw! Caw! Caw! The feathered poet
crowed. Caw! Caw! Caw! Came the verse
high up on the sycamore tree.
Caw! Caw! Caw! He vociferates
once more. His alliteration
and end rhymes, stressed in words of three.
Not to be outdone I sounded
my loud, lame three-word rendition.
Then from his branch he looked at me
And burst out with a loud guffaw
Caw! Caw! Caw! He boomed Caw! Caw! Caw!