Old Joe at Home

Up at five every morning,
Never missed a beat,
Set your clock by old Joe,
Extreme cold or heat.

First thing was black tea,
And then anything with toast,
Then he’d roll a cigarette,
And to the aviaries, he’d coast.

Seed and water all the birds,
And pick a little green,
The closest thing to nature,
That you have ever seen.

Old Joe’s aviaries were replicas,
And the difference so untold,
Of a likeness for the aussie bush,
Where native birds grew old.

A gentle touch and loving hand,
He offered to his birds,
You knew this was his greatest love,
Only kindness in his words.

He cared not for greenies,
And complaints that they filed,
Old Joe’s birds were far better off,
Than any in the wild.

When Old Joe sold that place,
I’m sure he sold his soul,
He lost his passion for living,
And it sadly took its toll.