Just Caws

Come, my pretties... Roost upon my outstretched arms. There! Tell me what you see with your fine, coal-black eyes from our lofty eyrie atop the tallest of my towers. Do you see them, my pretties? Scurrying about like ants on the floor? No, you are looking the wrong way - those actually are ants, scurrying about on the floor. But over yonder.. by the village? Ahh! Now you see them, do you not? Scurrying about like.. oh, well, we've covered that bit... Can your fine, coal-black, foal-black eyes make out what the villagers are busying themselves with? Some seem to be fashioning a giant effigy out of reeds - so realistic - with rush glasses and a moustache of stalks - it seems to be an Alan Whicker man... And those others? All carrying pitchforks and torches? What are they about, do we think? They are heading this way! Can your fine, coal-black, foal-black, sharp as a tin-tack eye divine their purpose? No matter... No matter, they are probably calling on us for tea...