forsooth tis a cracker

Evening at the Chateau.
Greeny Budgie has just deposited a pooh on my shoulder and flown from impending retribution to the comparative safety of the curtain rail.
I muse aloud thus tragicly:
"Let me have budgies about me who are fat.
Such budgies as sleep a nights.
Yon Greeny hath a lean and hungry look.
She tweets too much." 
The ghost of William Shakespeare materialises in the rocking chair.
"Good one Heelers," quoth he. "Worth waiting for."
"That one was for you Shakey," I reply.
"Put on South Park," murmurs the Bard eying the television.
Greeny returns to my shoulder and, after reconnoitring briefly, seizes my ear lobe for some exploratory surgery.
"Greeny you evil swine," I cry flailing at her.
She flies back to the curtain rail.
The Swan of Avon hasn't noticed any of this as he is now watching South Park.
The good episode.
Where the kids are junior detectives.
I nurse my ear tenderly.
"That ephin budgie," quoth me.
The ghost of Little Donnie Osmond appears.
He sings:
"And they called it budgie love,
And guess they'll never know,
How a bitten ear really feels,
Someone help me, help me please."
When he stops singing me and Shakey applaud.
"Switch on Friends," says Little Donnie Osmond eying the television.
It's been that sort of evening.