The pygmy pigeon, as small as a mouse,
Has a heart as large as a lion,
Her loft is the size of a little doll’s house,
She’s a bird with a will made of iron.
She may be minute but just see her shoot
From the loft at the start of a race.
You cannot dispute that this bird at root
Is a whizz, a winner, an ace.
She lives by the clock, the tick and the tock,
And she knows the route she must fly.
The star of the flock and as hard as a rock,
She’s the champ of the wide-open sky.