With your pharaoh’s crest, fine feathers
spattered in fertile mud, decurved beak;
favoured among Chosen People, I hear,
to carry messages of state from Africa
to King Solomon from Sheba your queen.
Never mind his wisdom, her spices and gold,
as the Bible states in I Kings.
We’re talking secrets of big dealers
and how you pried in to read her last P.S.
Something you know, as you probe my lawn,
go “Hoop oop, shekel! Hoop oop, shekel!”