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Poetry
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| Pidgin English | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||
| 23 September 2006 | ||||||||
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Pidgin English “Feedeth ye not the winged rats, Lest ye feed them to your cats”. My friends we have an infestation, Of foul Columbidae, Its thus my duty, nay vocation! To save the day. A steaming heap of pigeon guano, Our house besmears, Like ripe and reeking parmigiano, Left for years. Yet we, the literary Peregrines, Are poised above, Our meal of choice is pigeon skin, And heart of dove. For pigeons, much as chickens do, Return to roost, And noble falcons doves pursue, ‘Til blood is loosed! Forsooth, their pidgin doggerel, Offends mine eyes, Their bastard verse worth bugger all, Contempt defies. Though gentle Jesus did implore, “Child turn a cheek”, To suffer tamely slaps galore, Is over meek. Yet we will not envenomed bait, Like mice consume, But gently lure them to their fate, And pluck each plume. For wit is not a pigeon trait, Nor literary flair, Their place is not Great Writing but, Trafalgar Square. Oli (23/09/06)
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