I'm being followed by an ostrich,
  Or so the papers say,
But all the world's a stage
  And life is just a play

And the press re-write the story
  Just to make it more exciting.
They dramatise the boring bits
  And add in fires and fighting.

I don't believe there really is
  An ostrich right behind me.
I can't see how an animal
  Would have the skills to find me.

Although it would explain
  What's been knocking on my head.
If I thought it was an ostrich
  I would certainly have fled.

I have a better theory
  To explain the constant knocking,
A theory that is neither
  Too sensational nor shocking.

I've been working as a lumberjack.
  I love to be outdoors,
Even in the bitter cold
  And when it rains or pours.

I built a wooden hut
  In the woods so I could stay
And sleep there every night
  And work a long hard day.

I had an old accordion
  That I no longer needed.
I requested a shop keeper
  To display an ad, and she did.

The ad described the instrument
  In intricate detail.
It outlined all the selling points
  And said it was on sale

For only twenty euros.
  The ad also outlined
Directions to my dwelling
  So it's not too hard to find.

My theory is as follows:
  A blind man came to buy
The accordion for sale.
  He would have wondered why

After following the directions
  He could not locate the place
Where I'd built my wooden hut
  And established my own base.

I had to move the hut.
  It was in a hedgehog's path.
I'd wake up to the sound
  Of my greyhound barking at

The hedgehog who would stop
  And the barking wouldn't cease
Till I took the dog away.
  I needed rest and peace.

But the blind man wouldn't know
  Why my dwelling disappeared.
He'd try to solve the mystery.
  I'm sure he would have feared

That some unruly teenagers
  Put roller-skates beneath
The corners of my hut.
  Instead of their own feet

They've been putting the old roller-skates
  Beneath some garden sheds,
The phone booth, tumble dryers,
  Antique furniture and beds,

And they've pushed these things down hills.
  Some crashed into a tree.
The blind man would have thought
  That they played this trick on me.

He'd go back to his house
  Where the accordion cupboard's bare.
While walking down a hill,
  Taking in the country air,

He'd get the smell of timber
  That has recently been cut.
He'd naturally assume
  That the smell comes from my hut

As it slowly rolls away.
  He is simply not aware
That I always smell of timber.
  There is sawdust in my hair.

Reliance on a sense of smell
  Would lead to this confusion.
One of its results
  Is the unfortunate illusion

That my head is my front door.
  With this I can explain
Why he's knocking on my head.
  I've asked him to refrain

From continually knocking,
  But he must be deaf as well.
I only wish he'd try to find
  A knocker or doorbell.

His sense of touch is lacking
  If he thinks my head is wood,
And he can't see or hear
  But his sense of smell is good.

There's only one slight flaw:
  If it's true he cannot see,
How did he read the ad
  And then make his way to me?

Someone could have told him,
  Knowing he was seeking
A second-hand accordion.
  They'd overheard him speaking

Of his love for this fine instrument,
  And how he'd like another.
Accordions were his children
  And he made a loving mother.

It's not all that unlikely
  That a man with such odd views
Would be profoundly deaf
  Or be partial to strong booze.

I could just turn around
  And put my theory to the test.
I could also run away
  And give my head some rest,

But this would be surrendering.
  The press would win again.
Their sensational stories
  Should be aired inside a bin.

Last week they said they'd found a man
  Who claimed to have three legs,
But he was just some tin foil,
  Plastic buttons and clothes pegs.