Butcherbirds

Magpie-mimics, pseudo-shrikes,
In apron-fronts and axeman-hoods –
They hang their excess kills on spikes
Around their Aussie urban woods.
Lizzies, hoppers, chicks and mice,
On thorns and barbs and obscure ledges –
Bringing their suburban vice
To tuckeroos and privet hedges.
Where creeps the white trifolium,
So fly these cheerful songsters –
Where lays the fresh linoleum,
So roost these hipster monsters.
But most of all at nesting time,
When elder siblings lend a wing –
They form a gang, a clan of crime,
Whose name they proudly sing.

Flying Mice

The city is full of urban sparrows,
A hundred to each tree –
Flocking under the tourists’ feet
And dicing cars along the street.
They steal the food from off the barrows,
And ride the trams for free,
Nesting anywhere they can grab
In any old wall or concrete slab.
Finding their hedgerows far too narrow,
They seek opportunity –
When it’s just too dry for rainy pigeons,
Up-pop sparrows with ambitions.

Urban Pilgrims

“Nobody owns a pet in Istanbul, they just befriend the neighbourhood strays.”

– The Local Planet Guide

The dogs are stays and tramps and ferals,
Picking scraps, surviving perils,
Living in gaps on tufts of ground –
Though the locals seem to like them hanging round.

But who knows what diseases lurk,
And how much needed council work
To catch and spay and then release ?
Is that why vagrant number still increase ?

They may look cute in tourist spots,
But less so in the poorer lots –
Traffic-tangling, always breeding –
Some look starved, but overall succeeding.

We wonder where the pups are hidden,
As they lounge around, unbidden.
Have they fleas ?  We’d best not breach –
So stroking-wise, they’re just out of our reach.

And now official policy
Has moved to stop them roaming free,
To round them up and put them down
To kick the mange and rabies out of town.

But then there are the feral cats
About the mosques and laundromats –
They’re just as cute and just as cherished,
But they’re far less likely to be perished.

They too are mating uncontrolled,
But always act as good as gold
Just lazing round the grand bazaars,
Despite their secret ticks and worms and scars.

The Magnolia Jungle

Indoor cats grow fat
About the flat,
From all their lack of pace –

They spend all morning sat
Upon the mat,
Just cleaning fur and face.

Then mooch-in for a chat,
Or stroke and pat,
As though they own the place –

And sleep upon a hat,
Or idly bat
The drapes with easy grace,

They’ve got it far too soft and easy,
Never getting cold or sneezy,
Staring out the windows, queasy,
At the thought of empty space.

Hiding from the wet and breezy,
Doing as they damn well pleasy
Till they’re corpulent and wheezy,
Hiding in their cushy base.

Indoor cats grow fat,
Without a rat,
To give them cause to chase –

But they don’t care for that,
They run this flat –
Or prowl, in any case…