Shear plumage, or they will fly away;
Shear plumage, if you’d have them stay.
They will go up into the blue
And poop their fill right on to you.
Shear plumage, or they will fly away.

Shear plumage—they’ll head for the skies—
Shear plumage, or bake ’em in pies,
’cause if you don’t, your birds will fling
Themselves into the air and sing.
Shear plumage, or they’ll bomb you from the skies.

Dropping down, down, down
Plopping down, down, down,
Uh-oh! Look out!

Shear plumage, or there’ll be a pile—
Shear plumage—of birdshit that’s vile.
Then mounds will be a daily bane;
You’ll shovel up the piles and strain.
Shear plumage. . .they’ll be wretched, all the piles.

Shear plumage, or they will fly away,
Shear plumage, or away they’ll stray.
They will go up into the blue;
They flew the coop; the poop’s on you.
Fear poopage? Coupé plumage today!