Pigeons

From the parlor to the parkway,

Peeking purely 'round the causeway,

Prying at the Pigeons of preposterous days of yore.

Punching only in the darkness,

Seeking purely powerful presence,

Putting nothing but a pumping of your pride into play.

Pushing sheerly at promenade, of the putrid people pounds today.

But all the wiser,

Big brains like yours retire,

To the bleak, and dismal thinking,

Of beating all the best of reasoning,

By buttoning up your overcoat,

And being born away by the joke.

Such happens every time.

All the reason,

for such treason,

To be written down in rhyme.