  THE pigeons dwell in Pimlico; they mingle in the street; They flutter at Victoria around the horses' feet; They fly to meet the royal trains with many a loyal phrase And strut to meet their sovereign on strips of scarlet baize; But Peter, Peter Pigeon, salutes his cradle days. The pigeons build in Bloomsbury; they rear their classic homes Where pedants clamber sable steps to search forgotten tomes; They haunt Ionic capitals with learned lullabies And each laments in anapaests and in iambics cries; But Peter, Peter Pigeon, how sleepily he sighs! The pigeons walk the Guildhall; they dress in civic taste With amplitude of mayoral chain and aldermanic waist; They bow their grey emphatic heads, their topknots rise and fall, They cluster in the courtyard at their midday dinner call; But Peter, Peter Pigeon, he nods beneath my shawl. The pigeons brood in Battersea; while yet the dawn is dark Their ready aubade ripples in the plane-trees round the park; They light upon your balcony, a brave and comely band, Till night decoys their coral feet, their voices low and bland; But Peter, Peter Pigeon, his feet are in my hand. |
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