The Animal Immigrants Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Around Isleworth Studios, immigrants congregate
Third generation parakeets have muscled in on the locals
Their rackets are legion, stool pigeons tell us
Move over sparrow, chaffinch, wren, you sad little flappers
The parakeets are here to stay. You'd better believe it
32,000 in Britain, at the last bird census
And rising. Why is this allowed in the 21st century?

Picture it. Humphrey Bogart, lounging between takes
Of the ‘Africa Queen', opening the wrong door
Squawk!And parakeets go viral
The genii is out of the box!

(And then, there's the rural influx
Badgers, urban foxes, Mr & Mrs Peregrines
Does nobody know their place, their class, their station?

Don't get me started on scorpions in the sewers
Or Ninja turtles, lurking in hidden pools!

Whose idea was it to bring in the Greys?
No quarantine, nothing. No checks.
Full of the squirrel pox!

Pheasants, fair enough. (The Romans liked their bling)
Pheasants, the drag queens of the woods
Tasty, too, like sitting ducks, one step away from the plate
Practically flinging themselves under the wheels of cars

Horses stick to the rules. They carry passports
Some animal immigrants smuggle in on ferries
In the backs of cars.

Maybe they have rabies
Maybe they have fleas
Maybe they'll jump the fence
God help us, breed with the neighbours!
Who knows what nasties lie within their genes?