Serving Birdies

It's Saturday at birds' cafe,
and rain comes driving down.
Seed's gone; it's wet; it makes us fret.
If birds could frown, I'd frown

The feeder where we take our share,
empty, as you'd surmise.
The one unreachable is full;
our beaks can't reach the prize.

Where is the cup that fills them up?
We're watching from the trees,
for the lady who comes dripping out,
with a smiling, "If you please."

Oh happy day, at birds' cafe;
our server's on the ball.
Though showers spit, we'll weather it,
and nibble through the squall.

We "Peep" and "Chip" in lieu of tip,
though wondering when they'll fix
the one our beak can"t find technique,
to nip the tasty mix.

The fresh spring rain, though we disdain
to crowd on one small feeder,
we'll sing gratefully for the food we see,
so she comes back when we need her.