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The Number Twelve. Twelve in the nest. Twelve in the hopper. Twelve in the bar with all their plastic devotion.  From the backfield "The Third", as is his marked digit, runs around like a decapitated chicken and somehow gains territory, and then all the bright colored gulls rejoice. These are the "cool" birds to flock with.  

Don't they know the only birds that matter wear red? Not black, not dark green, nor purple, or that obnoxious lime green. That's just point of fact. 

Still they'll be squawking from their nests. Oh how the squawking doth continue, even If the nest is empty. 

But what do they know? Nothing. They are seachickens, after all.