Pigeon

 

As you strut down the chewing gum stained pavement

It’s hard to picture your breasts stuffed with foie gras

Served alongside a large glass of red Bordeaux

At a revered Michelin-starred restaurant.

Such grandeur is a far cry from the butts

Of cigarettes you peck at expectantly

While your cronies shit on windscreens for the laughs

You’re no golden pheasant, that much is for sure.

I wouldn’t think to waste my pallet on you

But what the hell do I know? I’m just a man

Who showers, exercises, drinks herbal tea

And takes it easy on carbs after 7

But when I go, my insides will be worm food

So peck on, indigenous creature, peck on.