By May he returns, our local reporter,
And any back lot can make him its boarder.
He's that tiny chap you're bound to be hearing
From a pine looking out on a sunny clearing.
There he's typing up his investigation
In enviable bursts of inspiration—
The chipping sparrow on one of his sprees
Is Hemingway pecking away at his keys.
He's honest, trusted, objective and thorough,
Like a newsman from the days of Murrow,
And always sporting his workday best,
His dapper tweeds and his dove-gray vest
(We need to learn where he finds his size)
And those Windsor specs that band his eyes—
With a natty crest that tops him off
Like a fortyish redhead's ruddy coif.
He'll follow a story deep in the thickets;
He lunches on seeds, berries and crickets.
At dusk with his dear he'll relax from the stress
When it's all typed out and heading to press.
His prose is as dry as the summer dust,
But till he's south on assignment, it's news you can trust.
There's no ifs or buts in his trademark diction.
It's plain-spoken sparrow. The rest is fiction.