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Alexander MacIntosh had a bird upon his head.
It stayed there all day long, even when he went to bed.
It stayed when he took a shower, it stayed when he ate.
It stayed on top of his head when he shut the garden gate.
Alexander MacIntosh didn’t know what to do.
He looked into a mirror; the bird was yellow, not blue.
It chirped while he was in school; it chirped at playtime too.
It chirped when he made his bed and when he had the flu.
Alexander MacIntosh ran outside to play and sat under a tree.
He looked up at a birds nest; he counted eggs up to three.
The bird looked at the blue eggs too and fluttered its left wing.
And then it did the strangest thing; it began to sing.
Alexander MacIntosh let out a cheerful cry.
The yellow bird flew from his head and circled in the sky.
It landed on the nest of straw and twigs and bits of fluff.
“I’m glad the bird has left my head. I think I’ve had enough!”
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