I met a pigeon on the District Line.
He said to me, in pigeon English,
“All these girls, of marriageable age,
flaunting barely covered tits and bums
as though it was their God-appointed mission
to go around provoking lustful men,
their arms around each others’ middles,
kissing lips and slipping hands up shirts.
It wasn’t like that when I was an egg.

“There’s a tall plane tree in Russell Square.
Tonight I’m going to perch among the branches
and poop at random on the passers-by.
The spiders have a website, where you can
brag about your exploits afterwards.”
At Earl’s Court he hopped out, promptly to be
pounced on by a cat which bore him off.
It left me mightily relieved to know
that in today’s Great Britain
terrorists can run but they can’t hide.