
There’s a writhing pile of pigeons —
Not two or a few or a smidgen —
You can raise their clout, and call them doves,
But I’m glad they're not on the wires above.

There’s a writhing pile of pigeons —
Not two or a few or a smidgen —
You can raise their clout, and call them doves,
But I’m glad they're not on the wires above.

They say that each and every single fly
Has five thousand lenses in each eye:
A three-sixty view from toes to rump,
And thus I become the fly-swatting chump.