In a thimble they sat,
a beetle and a bird.
Talking they talked,
each wanted the word.

Of Isabelle they spoke,
not knowing who she was.
The beetle asked the bird,
“What does this name mean, cuz?”

The bird sat perplexed,
thinking of naught but names.
“Hey beetle,” asked the bird.
“What if no name is the same?”

“Perhaps all have a meaning,
all its own.
Each dependent upon its owner,
just waiting to be shown?”

“Makes sense,” said the beetle.
“But if this be true,
Isabelle means what,
I haven’t a clue!”

“Is it pretty or dull,
or smart or insane?”
The beetle asked the bird,
“Perhaps it means brain?”

“It could mean dumb,”
the bird added, as the thimble shook.
The wind rustling his feathers,
like the pages of a book.

“I suppose,” said the beetle.
“But what does it matter?
For all we know,
it could mean mad as a hatter!”

“Oh don’t be silly,” said the bird,
the beetle starting to bug.
“You live up to your name,
you’re no better than a slug!”

The beetle sat ashamed,
unable to speak.
He wished the bird would shut up,
shut his great beak.

Silent they sat,
for only a while.
Neither would give in,
neither would smile.

If the storm hadn’t come,
still sitting they would be.
But as the drops steadily fell
they both wanted to flee.

So beetle and bird
apologized in turn.
They had meant no harm,
they just wanted to learn.

The name’s not important,
it’s the person that is.
For a robber and a nun
could both be named Liz.

Away they flew,
into the rain as one.
Both beetle and bird,
and the day that was done.