The Bird of Mimicking

Lyrebirds match the dry brown leaves,

as we chirp across the trees.

The sun glared upon the flaky oaks,

as I have met new talkative folks.

I am the one who’s playing that melody!

The wind is spiraling in ecstasy.

Darting up to the dark cloudy sky,

then I mimicked a loud child’s cry.

Lyrebirds, pests, rascals or mimics.
They might sound bad but don’t be a critic.

It mimics just to impress, 

and it won’t ever rest.