you smell like the crusty like the crack of a pigeon's arse. your pockets are as tight as the grumpy birds twitching anal muscles and they creak with misery when you force a smile down your butt cheeks. you cannot palate a smile as it is against your smug constitution.

some admire you. but they are not aware how you hiss misery at withered old ladies in the library. sneaking around the shelves to poke them in the fragile liver until they TIP over their canes and lie fractured. helpless. on their backs like blue-rinsed cockroaches. to you, we are all cockroaches. scrambling around in plastic imitation of your glory. our shiny exoskeletons weak in comparison with your iron breast.

carrying in your pigeon breast pride for your lonesome life, you squint at the world in daylight, wondering how it feels to be inferior. how it feels to cook horrid sludgy meals that pale in comparison with the congratulatory stew you sup on nightly. concocting proud dinners that you spear on golden forks, eating purposefully on benches to hear the winos cry out in pain! the stew! the golden stew that you slobber over your livery lips JUST TO MAKE THEM JEALOUS. letting noodles of brown gravy trail onto the bench. shuddering in horror as they crawl over to lick the cooling gravy from the rotten bench.

you will not feed them. you would not feed them if your stomach was BURSTING with bread. because they can bloody well get their own. and they could if they weren't so stupid and lazy. if they had half of your brains and got up early enough in the morning. they would be well able to strut down the street with their head held high. perhaps not fit to walk in your wake, but then again who is?

tutting around. the pigeons crack we know as your mouth wobbles. proudly you wag your way through the masses. leaving behind the scent of an old dirty bird.