They’ve all been making plans for Nigel
And by “they” I mean the ornithologists
They live in houses made of bricks and glass
Nigel lives alone at the edge of a cliff

The bird-banders fill binders and books with his biography
They note his habits and record his squawks on dictaphones
Meanwhile Nigel wonders “why don’t they ever ask me?
I could tell them there’s a difference
Between being lonely and being alone.”

The scientists published papers and secured some grants
To repopulate Nigel’s future neighbourhood
With a concrete caster named Carl they concocted a plan
But they couldn’t have predicted Nigel’s commitment to bachelorhood

Called to the concrete colony by a cassette
Nigel noticed the other birds didn’t fly or flap around
He remembered an old French peacock had told him “hell is other birds”
He thought “well, this is just the kind of place I’d like to settle down!”

Nigel, he felt badly for the dumb scientists
Himself, he was no bird-brain, and his heart was huge
So he chose a concrete mate and he built her a nest
He figured it was what they wanted him to do

Nigel did most of the talking, but he was used to that
Usually they just sat there and stared out to sea
When he died, they gathered, and Carl carved his tiny tombstone’s epitaph:
Here lies Nigel the Gannet: alone but never lonely