Upon the Brookdale walk,
My Husky sniffed a dead thing,
"Ah the Yellow Browed Sparrow"
Returning in the spring,
Feathered in the mundane,
Like his local cousin
With an expression most absurd,
Though the " White Throated Sparrow"
Was the proper word,
Now with that help of textbook,
And techno society,
Amongst the mean mugged house sparrows,
I can spot him in his slight degrees,
But if we lose our civilization,
And its lasered blazonry,
I will spot him by his big Ol Yellow Brows,
And that's what his name will be.