Let pigeons scurry thither, flocks abreast,
Ere breadcrusts flung (to starve no less than feed).
With but a word they'll coo as but a pest;
A feather-minded chorus tuned to cede
Their choice of menu to the scraps at hand -
Unwanted bread for necessary votes.
Go, scatter crumbs and see the crowd disband
Till pigeon-beaks then peck at pigeon-throats.
Give each its fill and, through the torpor-rest,
It contemplates solidity no more;
So, count its vote, but make of it a guest
And it will swallow any flavoured war.
First, serve a meal of ready-made religion;
Then, stir a pot and start to pluck the pigeon.
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