Everything I draw ends up wearing a bow-tie

There once was a bird, and a grand bird was he
all covered with plumes of pink,
and all round the town his footsteps were found
some in lead and some of them ink.
For this grand little bird, oh this fine young chap
had feet of a different kind;
for one was a pencil, which never would snap
and the other a pen most refined.
Through the day and the night he would write and would write
all manner of things where he strode:
sometimes long, sometimes short, or excessively trite
on pavements and walls and on roads.
The people cried out ‘what a terrible lout!
to scrawl on our chimneys and buildings!’
But for all that those people did holler and shout
and threw at him shoes and chased him about
only more and more words from the pen did spill out
and the pencil and plumes, for all they were stout
said and did more and held so much more clout
than the people around who were always without
the feet of a different kind.