The poem
Something's wrong in Pigeon-land; 'Tisn't as it used to be, When the pilgrim, corn in hand, Courted us with laughing glee; When we crooned with pinions furled, Tamest pigeons in the world.
When we packed each arm and shoulder, Never deeming man a menace; Surly birds were never bolder Than our dainty doves of Venice: Who would have believed a pigeon Could become wild as a widgeon.
Well, juts blame it on the War, When Venetians grew thinner, And gaunt hands would grab us for Succulence to serve a dinner . . . How our numbers fast grew fewer, As we perished on a skewer.
Pa and Mummie went like that, So when tourist takes his stand, On his Borsolino hat Soft as whispered love I land; Then with cooing liquid vowels I . . . evacuate my bowls.
Something's wrong in Pigeon-land; Mankind we no longer trust; Shrinking from the tendered hand, pick we corn from out the dust; While on guileless pilgrim pate, Thinking that revenge is sweet, Soft I croon my hymn of hate, Drop my tribute and retreat.