Pigeon Pied People

Pigeon loft people
never near the edge.
Afraid they’ll drop to ground,
living a very ordinary life of drab.
Quietly, careful with their sound.

What is this life to lead,
that they can’t lift a head to cheer.
Closeted in a never land of temerity,
with talk only forthcoming,
when swallowed on
supermarket beer.

All that’s owned is debt’s to banks,
run by barons with sticky fingers.
Their castles have creaky balconies,
where only life so cheap
or death lingers.

No acres to farm for food even less
to run and skip.
Some try to leave or conquer,
measured on the baron’s screen
as a blip.

So sit these people, strange indeed,
no time for chasing social greed.
What of the future,
there’s no great worry.
Sure to come down when it’s the time to bury
See, look the young run round mother’s hem.

They’ll not stray from their loft on high,
it’s here they’re perched
and sure to die.
All they need is within reach,
no need here for freedom of speech.
If used properly, they’re a political gem…