Paddling. Dawdling. Meandering.
These are the ‘ings’ we sing and swing the canoe around.
The corner? There is none, it’s a world without corners,
but territorial bird gangs waddling,
see us meddling, put the kettle on for the whistle
of their ‘you can’t come here’ rage.
Look, birds, I think it’s time for us all
to just chill out a bit.