This is a little poem that arose out of an exercise in my writing group looking at collective nouns. I based this around the term “a dole of doves”
There’s always a commotion amongst all of the coots when we’re around,
a catcall around every corner.
It’s all because of what Parliament hoots,
And the stuff they splatter on the pigeon papers.
Sure the turtledoves pity us,
They can see we’re not the thieves,
Those tribes of magpies tittering at us,
They charm their way from every trouble.
Like the crows they get away with murder.
Oh sure, I don’t have to be on the dole,
With my looks I could take flight,
I’m pretty enough, but why should I prostitute my feathers?
The lamentation of the swans that are on the game,
They’re the ones who need pitying.