I went to work one Sunday morn
Overtime bound
My demeanour was still drunken
My eyes cast to the ground
I trod my way down slater st
On full auto pilot
My guts all away
The puking might be violent
I passed a dropped kebab
Perfect and untouched
Thought/loook at that,you don't see that much/
Then strode a few paces more
And scarse believed my eyes
A host o filthy pigeons
Manically alive
In a ghastly circle
They dived and pecked with glee
At a pool of human *****
To an alarming degree
I stopped and looked back
At the dropped kebab
What do they know
That we don't
What is it we lack?