Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease, And utters it again when God doth please.

Wood-pigeons cooed there, stock-doves nestled there; My trees were full on songs and flowers and fruit, Their branches spread a city to the air.

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel-- He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Keith was no Franciscan, and it seemed to him an act of narcissism to feed pigeons, who would if anything outlast us.

It'll certainly give the pigeons something to do.