Crumbs of Discomfort
I walk across a spattered square,
My bonhomie receding.
But why? The feral pigeons there
A couple think worth feeding.
Dear sir and madam, please desist,
Cut short your crust-donation.
The aftermath’s no mere Scotch mist,
But, frankly, defecation.
If you deny that, in the end,
Bread casters cause pollution,
May soon on both of you descend
Some fitting retribution.