With that story in mind what do you call sea birds that squawk and flutter and gather their plankton prey by dipping their feet in the water like this?
You call it a storm peter. And then you muck about with the letters a bit - a cock is a cockerel - until it's called a storm petrel. (Alternatively you can call them Mother Carey's chickens, but only if you're an extremely salty sailor and even then Mother Carey (a sort of sea goddess) comes from Mater Cara and Mater Cara is the Virgin Mary so it all goes back to Jesus).
Parrot got verbed by Thomas Nashe at the end of the century in the equally pointless but fantastically titled Have With You To Saffron Walden, an inexplicable work of incomprehensible invective.
Parrots are very important linguistically because they preserve the words of the dead. There was an explorer at the beginning of the nineteenth century called Alexander Von Humboldt. He was in Venezuela (of which more some other time) and found an old parrot that still repeated words from the language of the Ature tribe. Nobody else did, because the Atures had been wiped out a few years before.
I don't know if you have ever, in a rage against mortality, called a dead friend's answerphone, but there is something terrible in a people, a culture, a civilisation surviving only in the uncomprehending imitation of a bird.
None of which has anything to do with the Medieval French word péter, meaning to fart. So this post must, obscurely, peter out.
St Peter: The Missing Years