A pigeon after crumbs waddles over for scraps of Scotch egg.
Brave enough to eat near my feet with its flabby beak.
Clumsily it comes after my crumbs.
The try-hard rotund retard can’t fly, won’t fly.
Its swollen beak leading the snack-sneek.
It walks; more overladen than hidden,
The bold bird heard making haste for my poor-taste waste.
My friendly fat fuck of an airborne tramp eats boiled avian abortion.
Cautiously stooping with one portly eye on me and one on the food.
The fear and need to leave is far as it feeds near.
The tubby winged rat wanting dregs of my rotten egg flotsam.
Still with one eye on the big guy,
ready to fly,
never breaking stare
at the giant scary human bear,
tearer of pork in breadcrumbs,
ever decreasing circles to be fed-crumbs .
The single pork-sod becomes three becomes seven birds,
A flock of flying fat fock.
becomes three prospectors,
becomes seven investors and consumers.
Picking away at the crumbs of the uncommon man.
The lardy buddys waddling, heads nodding.
If the greedy, needy, feathered cunt had a tongue…
it’d be lolling while strolling
for out-loud land-nom off LOLondon crossing.
These beggars can be choosers;
either consumers or losers;
belly full or trousers looser.
If pigeons wore trousers that is.
Which they don’t because they’re birds.