All-Day Dinner Poem by Angela Wybrow

They swoop and they swerve;
They live on their nerves.
Their eyes, black and beady,
Are watchful and greedy.
Their heads nod along
To a silent pop song.
The crumbs, they do fly
From sarnies and pies -
The pigeons make haste
And are soon on the case.
Whether small or large,
Spread with butter or marg,
The pigeons don’t care:
They don’t wish to share
The crumbs which they find
(They don’t form a line!) .
To one tiny crumb,
They all make a run.
They take leave of their senses
And a big battle commences.
They squawk and they squabble,
Whether on grass or on cobble.
They look set to burst,
But still want to be first
To the food they have found –
Their feast on the ground.
The crumbs are soon downed
And the winners are crowned!