I’ll know a feeling fairly blessed
When Titmus Tom is in the nest,
The shelter’s straw and mossy floor
Hanging from the potting shed.
Blue heads make for Blue Tits, see,
If black and white the Great Tits be,
That is the way and this is the key.
Coal Tits rest in conifers,
Crested Tits you’ll self-refer,
I did not meet with Jennifer.
Willow Tits are on the turn,
Their black bibs from the ings
Which burnt, back when vassals suffered.
Marsh Tits make for memories good
When baked within the season’s pud.
Their genera are the following three:
Parus from Latin for titular breeds,
For birds in blue say Cyanistes,
Poecile stems from Ancient Greek;
Within a willow I found four, then three.
Vibrant migrants flown for now,
A pigeon with an ankle sprained
Is all the lonely lawn contains,
And on the floor, a dressing gown.

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