This morning I saw a hawk, she was standing at a crosswalk, and I thought would she not rather fly?
But sometimes I sit here(not lifting a finger) as I’m watching the cars go by.
Phlegmatic and lazy, choleric and crazy? The reason it just matters none,
because hawks made of feathers say if they had their druthers, they’d be working on just having fun.
finally, a poem that rhymes!
In honor of St. Patrick’s day, it is limericky.