There is a bird which warbles late at night,
no doubt fooled by the bright streetlight;
it thinks it is day when, in fact, it is night,
and feels obliged to sing when it aught not.
Some say it’s a nightingale,
but I prefer another tale,
and so would you,
if only you knew.
The bird nests in the ground of Lanchester Club,
where there’s music and much drinking in the pub.
The smell of beer makes it tipsy and tight,
so it joins in, and sings late into the night.
Isam Hussain
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-carouser/
