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New York Pigeon: An Action Poem
With a still kind of motion.
Not caring if he dies,
Not twitching at the massive
Vechiles approaching,
He will eat his crumbs,
Pecking at the ground
Till he is filled.
He wobbles up and down,
Grabbing every little
Crumb with his beak,
The car slowly approaching him,
The driver, getting closer,
Screaming at him before
Swerving away
And nearly crashing
Into a pole.
