He only has two songs, the black-capped chickadee,
more than, say, Debby Boone or Vanilla Ice,
but still, not much of a musical storehouse.

He takes his name from the five-note cry
chick-a-dee-dee-dee
which makes him sound
like a tiny high-pitched flying Sinatra
in a Beatnik beret.

This time of year, though, they’re nesting
and all he seems to have in him
is the little two-note tune
fee-bee
the first note up, the second one down,
over and over,
and that’s when I call him Mr. Monotonous.

All right, we get it, you have eggs,
you don’t want them to be stolen,
and you’re proud you can still
get the missus with child.
Get over yourself, go eat a seed
or an insect and try to have a vocabulary
larger than that of a Chicago alderman.

I hate to tell you, Mr. Monotonous,
but the mourning dove has a song
every bit as limited as yours
only much more beautiful.

She is singing now too
and it’s the strangest thing,
something no one intended
and I know you have nothing to do
with each other, yet somehow
you sound so much better together.