Mr Robin, a red breast he has,

cheeky chappie, upon a tree

Christmas would not be the same

without him standing on a beam.

Mr Turkey, he's fat and plump,

the centre table is his place

everybody knows his taste

all we do is fill our faces.

But the robin through winter comes,

never idle, he preens and plumes

hopping nearer as you dig

after worms he sings.

Updated: 10:58 Thursday, December 13, 2001