deep in the green of a Banana tree,
there's a wee bird twittering at me,
when the heavy air lies hot and still,
he cries, your ill, your ill, your ill!
I wouldn't mind if he said it just once,
does he takes me for a stupid dunce?
time after time your ears he'll fill,
with cries of, your ill, your ill, your ill!
'in a word 'well' doc is how i feel',
i don't listen to their spiel,
i don't believe it but soon I will,
coz, your ill, your ill, your ill!
from the outside it really doesn't show,
but how is it that i'm the last to know?
the wee bird's voice is now quite a shrill,
he says, your ill, your ill, your ill!
he's persistent he demands to be heard,
the voice you hear is the brain fever bird,
he keeps on saying you are, until....
its true, your ill, your ill, your ill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Cute, Cute, and yes those predictions do seem to catch up to us with time. Thanks for the comment on Love's Diamond. Adeline