That Budgie Harold of mine, forever drinking and all the time.
A squirt of whisky, a glug of Guinness it's surprise at all he's still here with us.
There he go a shouhy loud at regulare passer-by, shouby in the morning tide this budgie who imbibe.
But what else for a bird who sing and squawk and scream, we hang him by the lamppost bright and watch him gently dream.
God Harold, noddy and all soundly off to sleep, waiting with a waiting hand to bring you home for tea.
'Tis always sad round here now that Harold go, but is that him just now I hear yes burning on the stove.
(they ate it or something)