Apropos of the previous blog. Sparrows have apparently more or less abandoned London and seemingly have followed Huttonian north.
The sparrows, twittering, agreed
that things must change.
Nature was not fair to them and theirs.
Why should the thrushes get
the fattest worms? And the pigeons eat
much more than them? Such undeserving
slobs. Over bred and over bearing. Unworthy
of the perch of privilege set above
the honest hard working sparrows’ branch.
They chewed it over for a year or two.
Then organised themselves. Chatter 88
was formed. Petitions painstakingly scratched,
all the sparrows of the world assiduously lobbied.
A campaign of civil disobedience and aerial disruption:
thrushes crapped upon before they gobbled the early worm.
Pigeons dive-bombed as they digested post-prandially.
Blackbirds mobbed as they strutted their stuff
on suburban lawns.
“Chatter 88 is great” chanted the sparrows,
more or less in unison, exhilarated by their defiance
of the cruel and unchanging nature of things.
Unchanging was right. Nothing did. And when
a couple of marauding hawks ate the President
and the Honorary Secretary, the movement folded.
Much to the relief of the majority of sparrows
who had been nervous of so much political activity
and who could return spontaneously to what they did best
(and more frequently) than any one else. Which is why,
despite the hawks there are so many sparrows.
(No sparrows were actually injured in the making of this poem)