My Toe Bleeds, Betty
Is any sound more villagey
Than the village pigeon‘s call ?
But it’s now heard in the strangest places,
Dawn to evenfall –
With not a stile or thatch in sight,
Atop the concrete wall,
We get a hit of rural life
Within the urban sprawl.
For even in the suburbs, in those tryhard-hamlets,
Right on cue,
The woods have flocked to join the rocks
And brought along their coo.
I wonder who now occupies their trees,
Where up they grew ?
Who next with wanderlust ?
The city swine ? The urban ewe ?
Of course, their feral pigeons
Have since long since paved the way –
But their call is so disorderly
And mumbled night and day.
But how the chest of a country lad must swell
In the urban grey,
When a wood is proudly hooting
And she has a lot to say !
Rhyming Couplets 