Hark! there’s a pecker in the bush.
He’s stuck.
Such luck,
to be in need of a helpful push.

Struggle, friend, be free.
At last,
you’ll cast,
your bile in that loathsome tree.

You writhe and you squirm.
Just then,
and when,
the briar holds you firm.

It grips you tighter and faster.
You choke;
you croak.
The bramble is your master.