The ruby-crowned kinglet—we know him best
From his royal tour of the Middle West,
When he follows all the May nymph florists
From the southern coast to the boreal forests.
And to see his verve and to hear his story
Is to come a Whig but to leave a Tory—
Though who’s so loyal to forget
He only rules a kingdomlet,
For any more a mite and he
A hummingbird would have to be.
This midget circus gymnast, not quite an ounce,
He flits through trees and tests each twig for bounce,
His white-ringed eyes out for the worm or beetle
Surprised among the buds and leafage fetal;
And though he’s stripped down to his gray-white singlet
He still is every inch (of all three inches) kinglet;
But where’s the crown of ruby red
That Adam spied upon his head—
Was it stolen or somewhere put down,
Our tiny liege’s scarlet crown?
See, that’s what makes him so imperial:
His crown’s a Mohawk he can raise at will!
It’s hid until there’s fear or some elation
And then we’re witness to his coronation.
Now some have deemed that crown we glimpse our lord in
More like the crowning work of Lizzie Borden,
But that I’d say is far from fair
To his winning sleight of flaming hair—
There’s no doubt you would still be cool
If you’d learned that trick yourself in school.
Long live the kinglet! With his crown so coy
And his royal decree of what has to be joy—
You’ve likely heard his See see see Sue sue sue
Chifferry chifferry chifferry too.
This micro-saltimbanque—he's got some chops!
And while he sings his hopping never stops.
I wish he’d stick around this year
And do his summer reigning here,
But he’s northbound to his castle and
His queenlet in the timberland.