Spring iz sprung.
Da grass iz riz.
I wonder where dem boidies iz ?
Da little boids iz on da wing.
Ain't dat absoid ?
Da little wings iz on da boid.
One place the boidies ain't is on my boidfeeders, sorry, birdfeeders.
For some reason, these just don't charm the birds off the trees. They can't get enough seeds from the tube feeder, and in their excitement chuck some of them on the floor where the resident pheasant comes to hoover them up.
They like breadcrumbs on the table.
But these lovely little feeders ? No thanks. Only one or two tits venture onto them, even though in this cold weather you'd think they would be flocking to get at the fatballs.
But no.
A heroic faliure.
What was it about form following function again ? Back to the drawing board.
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