They Come
They Come.
Flapping their feathered wings.
Mocking me in their bizarre language of squawks and gibberish
Circling like vultures above unsuspecting vessels
Searching for scraps.
If one brings out food on a boat, They Come.
They Come in their vast numbers, their feathers glistening in the sunlight.
Squawking their war cries amongst their conspiratorial brethren
Begging for scraps of wheat products not fit for any avian.
No vessel, passenger or fishing, is safe from their hungry gaze.
They Come with the look in their eyes.
The look of pure malevolence in thier optical organs will stare into your soul.
Small black pools of pure evil, darker than the hearts of 20th Century dictators.
One pupil eclipsing a red iris, scanning the ground for bombing targets to dispense their putrid payloads of waste acid.
They Come to every coast to plunder every port.
Determined as any corsair and twice as smelly.
Intimidating tourists with carefully placed acid payloads to pilfer their sustenance.
Parasites on civilization, scrubbing for fried potatoes from the patrons of seafood restaurants.
They Come, as they always have.
Wherever there is fish, wherever there is meat, they will strike.
Striking in numbers beyond count, eclipsing all manners of pelican and duck.
With the size of a hawk
The skill of a crew
The desperation of a vulture
And the aim of a pigeon
They Come... They come... they come
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