At noon the pier was typical,
A mackerel sky reflected the sea.
As strutted people whimsical
The seagulls milled about their feet.

One bird did wander aimlessly
Into the busy road,
Was squashed, but died not gainlessly, 
This sorry tale will show.

Chow Wing stepped forward: 
“This bird do I claim for my restaurant.
Though battered now, ‘tis battered fried 
I’ll sell this cormorant.”

But lo, there came from Kebab House 
Two Greeks to bag their quarry:
“This flightless doner here is ours,  
Give up or you’ll be sorry.”

Before Chow Wing reply could make 
There came a rep from Binsters pies:
“This mangled bird you must forsake, 
To me it is a meaty prize.”

A clash of cleavers then was heard  
And human heads did fly,
All for the use of that flat bird  
Did cooks of nations die.

Upon the road the bird remained,
A thousand flies were fed,
While Mr. Mac McRonald came
And scooped up all the dead.

So, friends, there was a bloody scene 
That day upon the pier, 
Not since last week had such been seen, 
When someone puked their beer.

So if your Greek or Oriental,
Or your man from dodgy pies,
Greasily smiles, he means: you’re mental, 
Scoffing food that’s fare for flies.

David John Rudkin, May 2001