There is a drawbridge in a little town

that spends most of its life extended down.

Upon it, pigeons tend to make their nest,

a twiggy little feathered sort of crown.

The birds would fail any sort of test,

for when they sit there and they take a rest,

they won’t move even if a boat comes through.

Now there are many fewer of that pest.

Oh, the poor birds!  No longer will they coo,

but it’s their fault because of what they do,

or what they don’t – for pancake-pigeon-pie,

means that they are really dumb birds, too,

remnants of intelligence gone by.