Down with Bluebirds

When in the dumps, I hate the things That ordinarily I love. I loathe the lark that blindly sings; I hate the bland, blue sky above. The crocus, sneering on the lawn, Forsythia about to bloom— I'd like to see them dead and gone, Instead of filling life with gloom. But most of all, I do not care, While I am droning in my hive, To hear vivacious chums declare How great it is to be alive.