The Packbawky Anthem

My poor journal has been woefully neglected of late, thanks to the ridiculous lake of work I'm swimming through. It wouldn't be so bad, you know, if I hadn't got these concrete galoshes on. What a fashion statement!

At any rate, lacking the fortitude for a proper entry, I present this forthwith:

We are the voices that herald the dawn,
Throats stretched to welcome the morning's first yawn.
We are the painters of balconies high,
Whitewashing buildings that puncture the sky.
We are the sweepers that tidy the street;
What we can't carry, we'll gratefully eat.
Like us or lump us, when all's done and said
We'll still be going when you lot are dead.

Hark as we trumpet the daybreak refrain!
Joyful and ardent, come sun or come rain.
Find us in winter, all poised on one foot,
Huddled together, our anthem to flute.
Find us in springtime, askew on the wall,
Drunken on nectar and ready to fall.
Like us or lump us, when all's done and said
We'll still be squawking when you lot are dead.

And should we, all clumsy, bespatter your brow
With feculent whitewash, don't raise a row--
Though slimy and smelly and dodgy to duck,
Our leavings are rumored to bring you good luck.
Oh, join in our chorus, come join in the song!
Thousands of jubilant birds can't be wrong!
Like us or lump us, when all's done and said
We'll still be singing when you lot are dead.