Pigeon Paradiso

One tried to build a nest in my pot of purple pansies, settling its rear in the center and knitting twigs around; I squawked and it flew away. Don't diss the pigeons, though, all the garbage they eat, they're saving the city millions in collection. When I walk to work, there are clans of them perched on the ledges of the Agriculture Department, threatening to poop on the commuters pouring out of the metro. Don't diss the pigeons, though, when it's late at night and a shifty character lurks behind, a pigeon fluttering can be the clue, the alert. The window cleaner hanging off the building by a thread, wipes clean the glass; no sooner, it is dirty again. Don't diss the pigeons, though, without their contributions, gardens the city over would be out thousands in fertilizer. The sleek, the chubby, the weak, the strong, we all belong.