Buzzards

Perched on high watching, waiting The prey comes ever near It comes out about three thirty, A thirty pack of beer. The taste so sweet and malty So ripe and yes, so clear They swoop a little closer For the thirty pack of beer. Each one is very willing To contribute and bring it here But the buzzards keep approaching The thirty pack of beer One buys, one fly’s, one asks, And then you hear It’s ok to have just one From the thirty pack of beer. When suddenly it’s all gone And then they disappear You find yourself with another Empty thirty pack of beer