I am the London Pigeon
And I know what to do.
I catch the train at Richmond
But then get out at Kew.
Sometimes there’s a cuckoo,
Sometimes there’s a crow,
Sometimes shifty-lookers
Whom I cannot claim to know.
The air of the south-west quarters
Is commendably sweet and mild,
With suburban parks and water
To keep it undefiled
Unlike the wan commuter
Who soils his freshness daily
With going so greyly suited
To boardroom, Bank or Bailey.
Why labour in such a fashion
As visibly depletes them
When I have free admission
To the world’s top arboretum
With its realm of bright exotica,
Botanically topical,
Its glass palatial hothouses
Both temperate and tropical?
Pity the preening pouter
Who throngs to Trafalgar Square
And feeds false thought about us
By playing the scrounger there.
I am the London Pigeon
And what I’m saying is true;
I board the train at Richmond
And then get off at Kew.
