They get to watch Britney Spears sunbathing by her swimming pool.

They get to change the rhyme to three and twenty.

They compete to see who can perch on the tiniest, wavingest, whippingest branch of the old oak tree.

They get to shit on their mate's lover, who is feeding below them.

They get to spot acorns and then dive bomb to open them.

They get nearer to God.

They look pretty as desiccated Christmas Balls in season and out.

They are calling the other birds to prayer.

They are looking to see if the British are coming.

The air is better up there.

They get to watch and see where all the good chow is.