The how, the where, the what and the when,
The pingwhen will ask you again and again.
It’s the sound that the male makes –
And if there’s a ping you’ll know it’s the hen.
It’s related to penguins and waddles along
And every inquiry becomes a new song,
Though question its digestion,
Ask why it’s so wrong
That a bird that asks questions has such a pong.
It feeds just on snails, always leaving the shells
As a warning to others: “Avoid all the smells.”
But upwind a different story it tells –
The hen when it pings sounds like silver bells.