Demise of a Folk Song

The birds and bears on Wolverton Mountain
have nothing on the conflict in my yard.
Next to my birdbath, the birds' own fountain,
the feeder as the target, bears strike hard.

The birds have no recourse but to leave us
and go to feeders where no bears attack.
Though the lack of song and color grieve us,
it's summer, and the birds for food won't lack.

It seemed to me on Wolverton, those bears
and birdies joined their forces to prevent
the young man drawn to court the maiden fair,
these bears and birds in opposition bent.

So birds, I guess words are said in sorrow;
the feeders, now unfilled, are put away.
It's only, should there be some glad tomorrow,
bears moved away, we'd feed the birds. Hurray!