Still a trickle of birders coming to pay their respects to the Savi's, though they are now outnumbered by an expressionless undead horde of hardcore dudery. Look down their binoculars, down, down into the distant, diminished eyes and you will see,... you will see nothing,... nothing but vacancy. Their leaky-milky orbs, opaque, weepy windows into a soulless dusty void; rigid tympanic membranes deafened, unmoving within the dusty crack-waxed auricles; an arrhythmic slurry of vapid syllables oozing intermittantly from their slack, dribble-cornered, jaws. Oh! The horror! What did they do in their past lives to be cast out this way? Back! What merry murderers must they have been? Back I say! What unfathomable crimes must have been conjured behind those unseeing eyes? Get thee back into the tempest! Back! Back to night's Plutonian shore!
The scene of panic at Uskmouth today, triggered when a recently retired sales executive from Fladbury, Worcestershire, was overheard to mispronounce Cetti's. The dudes were among them! Even the crows were terrified.