The Partridge And The Cartridge

Partridge red, how fine you fly;
Winging, gliding up on high.
We, down below as you sweep by,
Esteem the rapture to our eye.

Partridge red, how deft you try
To fill the heavens with your cry;
As you ride so fleet and spry
When for your covey fore you vie.

Partridge red, alert yet shy
I call and wait for your reply.
Alas, I close my eye and sigh
As someone shoots you from the sky.