A shoulder riding squawk box, endowed with feathers bright. In a real world scenario, he'd be dinner tonight...

From spiders to butterflies, Ants to wasps, Beetles to houseflies, We are a class, what do you call one of us?

Rooted, here I sit in place; a lonely sentinel of grace. My arms are grand, and steady held; if sick and die I must be felled. Many names have I, but one I keep; for I’m the one who’s known to weep.

One guards a message folded tight, one rests where sea and stone unite. Though one’s pressed in wax and one meets foam, what single word can call both home?

A flightless bird of grey, brown and white, I'm no Happy Feet, though my color is alike. People always thought I was dumb, Yet, due to human interference I succumbed.