I was sitting on a memorial bench, in Trafalgar Square,
When a solitary pigeon materialised from, apparently, thin air.
I liked his air of certainty, he had a sense of purpose,
As though, compared to his intent, all else was somehow surplus.
He had a kind of arrogance that his surroundings couldn’t shatter,
As if, beside his aim in life, all else just didn’t matter.
The truth is I had a sandwich of quite enormous size,
And he had not just clocked it, his eyes were firmly on his prize.
I’d bought myself a small baguette, tomato, basil, mozzarella,
And it was clearly manna to this discerning little fella.
So I tore an end off pronto, that was sadly lacking filling,
And fed it to my buccaneer – who clearly made a killing.
So if you visit London, and go to this notorious square,
And sit on a memorial bench, you might just find him there.
Scrutinise this photograph, and memorise him well,
And then, please would you give him some trifling bagatelle?
And as you scatter round you a field of lush breadcrumb debris,
Would you murmur to him that it’s “virtually” from me?!