Gull Trouble

Like rowdy teens all running for a bus The gulls have seen the merest hint That someone threw a crust An unwanted scrap from Pret The bottom of a wrap or the final soggy Mouthful from a keytchup spattered bap Sending fifty feisty squabbling birds All rising in a screechy flap Just the first arrive in time to dive And wing away their beak-caught prize Towards the winter water skies Chased by the nearest losers. The rest resettle in their line to wait again Another time the unpredictable arrival Of a sandwich part way munched In the office lunch timetable.