The Twenty first division of the airborne flying rats,
were perched upon a building ledge above my block of flats.
This way and that ,their beady eyes, sought targets on the square,
and then en masse, they launched themselves, in squadrons to the air.
One little lady unaware of the danger from above,
was busy feeding sparrows with crumbs of bread and love.
The Formation of the Twenty First began their bombing run,
Camouflaged in pale blue plumes, they dived out of the sun.
Too late, too late, the sparrows launched, in panic'd flapping group,
as both the lady and the square were raked by pigeon poop.
A passer-by in sympathy produced tissues in in a wedge
‘No it’s far too late for that; they’re already on their ledge!’
Then the Twenty First Division of the Airborne flying rats,
returned to base, their run complete, re-landing on the flats.
With chests puffed out and heads pulled in, the squadron stood so proud,
as far below the carnage wrought, attracted quite a crowd.
Looking up man exclaimed, ‘I seen it, it was them,’
and pointing to my block of flats, let fly a gob of phlegm.
‘Those dirty flying poop filled birds have made this town a mess,
Someone ought to do something, we ought to make redress.’
A committee formed and motions passed and poop law was laid down,
that any pigeon, found at large, was fair game on the ground.
Dogs were trained and cats were bought, to thwart the dirty foe,
and with catapults and airguns everybody had a go.
Thus the mass attacks were finished, and group bombings lost their fun,
So the flying rats just changed their ploy, and started solo runs.