If it waddles like a duck, ruffles into an airy feather, smiles wide for a bill,

If it honks loud as an overhead flyer, choosing to dart about the place,

Then ya, looks like you might be dealing with a really colourful quacker.

But have you seen that trim duck's godlessly-made counterpart?

Who could know what sorta lineage that birdshit muddled from.

Why, that walking allofeed believes it’s a reasoning-feeling animal,

Really, it’s a mangy sewer pigeon of heavenly gildy-girth descension.

And it stinks as it waddles, beaking for old men’s seedy breadcrumbs,

I don’t think it's ever washed its git’l feathers- and it certainly can’t fly.

It’s as dumb as the road it foots, crumb’n up soppy-wet off cold brick,

And it roams with a pack of sweaty mangy rats, each a slick old finger.

I suppose, at least a honky Prince attempts a ruffled-collar mating dance,

But an idiot sewer pigeon with a rat pack will stink-up all Kittywoof Kingdom,

Plus, a Pigeonrat can’t dance, only slather for dry coin seeds sprinkl’n down. 

And, as just another dumb roaming Pumkinhead,

I’d ruffle a fancy duck any day and watch it flap,

But a sweaty Pigeonrat is the stickiest toucher.

You've all heard that say'n:

"A feather can brush off easy,

But git'l slime lingers forever."