A Poem About A Cockatiel.

Today I was writing poetry, when things went slightly amiss. Here, for your, erm… pleasure. (I may illustrate this eventually.) Two notes to make: I was writing poetry in the first place because I was trying to persuade Mavi to chew on the notepad. He was uninterested in his real toys and clearly bored out of his mind, so I improvised. Finally, Mishka’s nickname – which we use as much as we do her real name – is Maloo. Don’t ask. I don’t remember why.

‘Maloo the Grumpy Cockatiel’


Maloo the grumpy cockatiel

Lived in a world where she could not feel

Joy, or happiness – but was only mad

Because a cheery yellow face, that bird had

With bright eyes and round, orange cheeks,

She bore the humans’ smiles for weeks and weeks

Until she bit them very hard

And up went the humans’ guards

‘Take that,’ she said, ‘For I care not whether

‘You are a creature of flesh or feather;

‘I do not like things in my face,

‘Or in, I might add, my personal space

‘Cute and cheery I look, right,

‘But I have a beak, and I bite

‘I’ll have you know I’m a nice bird, truly

‘It’s just sometimes my mood’s unruly

‘So save your fingers and your feelings,

‘And respect me, really, during our dealings…’

Maloo the grumpy cockatiel

Made it clear what was real:

Not the cheery, clownish cheeks,

Or the cuteness that peeks

Through – but instead

A clever bird, with dreams in her head

Of the peace she’d get, were the humans dead!

IMG_3406 IMG_3133 IMG_3128


Yeah. I told you it all went amiss. It started as a children’s poem, with a nice little moral tied up in there. And then I was like, ‘Maloo wouldn’t say that! She totally wants us dead.’ Plus I imagine that she shrieks expletives at us every day, so there was one of those in the ending, too, but I edited it out for the purposes of this blog.

A little bit of Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes for you here: ‘The Three Little Pigs.’ You’re welcome. They’re a bit similar, O. says?


Maverick got his own poem, too, as I churned out meaningless words in an attempt to convince him my paper was both interesting and important. What? I was desperate. Did it work? No, I wanted it to, so he decided, ‘You put way too much effort into that. Not interested.’

Anyway. The poem.



Mavi, Mavi, Mavi-Bat,

Please for once, just chew this crap,

It’s fun, it’s gay, it’s very great,

Better than my shoes at any rate.

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