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It's the finest music in the land.

Sung by a choir, that's not very grand.

The one you can hear singing top note,

Is a Black and White Billy or Mountain Goat.

No one reads music, that's not of much use.

Conducting is usually done by the Goose.

The Chickens and Ducks Keep well in Tune,

Our Farm Dog howls by the light of the moon.

The Cows you know start off with a moo,

That's the signal for the Owls too-whit and too-whoo.

The Sow with her Piglets, begins to grunt.

The Fox joins in and leaves the Hunt.

The Horses are good and give a loud neigh,

Not to be left out the Donkeys bray.

I've not mentioned the Birds of the air,

Wonderful how they all do their share.

The Cats of course are masters of this art,

And with their Kittens all take part.

The Cockerel is perhaps a little too loud,

But then again he is rather proud.

This choir of mine is very well trained,

Only the Church has of yet complained.

We sing our praises to Him on high,

The Poor Old Vicar, can only sigh.

His congregation consists of but few,

I'll help with my choir, How about YOU.

by Bernard Shaw

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