WILD OATS.
are wobbling gyroscopes of lust.
Last week a stranger joined them, snowwhite
pouting fantail,
Mae West in the Women's Guild.
What becks, what croo – croos, what
demented pirouetting, what a lack
of moustaches to stroke
The females – no need to be one of them
to knowexactly what they were thinking – pretended
she wasn't there
and went dowdily on with whatever
pigeons do when they're knitting.
Norman MacCaig
February 1968
2 comments:
Hee hee. Delightful.
Sorry to say, that pigeons ar just flying rats.
I used to blast at least 4 a week when I lived in Fife.
You wouldn't believe the amount of vermin these things have on them.
Nice poem though.
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