NEVER CROSS A COOT
Now that grebe he is a vandal
and a thug as well to boot
And he’s never got the handle
that he should be nice to the coot.
‘Cos the coot he’s nice as pie when
he’s mated and he’s calmer
but spring – well, never cross him then
As there’s bound to be a drama.
‘Cos with his giant fighting feet
He’ll lash out on his back
And if, perchance, the grebe he meets,
That crestfallen grebe back-tracks.
So our grebe duffs up the tufted ducks
They never see him coming,
Neck low with threat now, up he rucks –
‘Cross the water they go running.