O Blackbird! sing me something well: / While all the neighbours shoot thee round, / I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, / Where thou may’st warble, eat, and dwell.

Prices have flattened out.

Ah, poor young creetur, croaked the old woman; it's a pity he's come to this.

Following an hour of graft that did not include too many glimpses of goal he casually wheeled away having finished David Beckham's inviting cross in the manner of a man totally at home in those kind of positions.