Ever notice how, on any given street in Europe
you’ll always find fat pigeons?
These vagrants
roadside, power-line squatters
always seem to be well fed
and hobble, mockingly ignorant
with round, taut bellies dragging on the ground.
Pâtisserie afterthoughts
scatter in front of a park bench audience
inciting a crass, avian brawl
while beggars sit helplessly, homelessly
looking on.
The pigeons will say it’s easy for them to pick up crumbs
because of beaks built to peck away at food.
The pigeons will say that beggars can't pick up crumbs
because their fingers are too thick
lips too full
hair too curly
noses too broad
skin too dark.
Beggars are just not built
for a certain lifestyle of dignity
and freedom
and bread.
Mother England
round and rosy
from gold and blood pecked from our soil
with wings fluttering, squawking
jabbing pointed beaks
over land that was already governed
over people that were free
over bread baked by beggars’ hands
chained to her flagpost.
Mother England
who sang our patriots to sleep
with lullabies that were full of lies
gave us building blocks and trading blocs to play with
and nursed us into lofty political paradigms
only wings could reach.
So when crumbs stop falling from idle park benches
when European Unity turns stale
and faces, pale
no longer sing of home and glory
Mother England, like fat pigeons
will simply fly away
and leave us beggars
plucking helplessly at crumbs
and hoping for bread.