The marabou stalks

Keep sauntering

From corner to corner

With the sights cast down

A vulture

Pecks on the other

On a mare suspicion

That the other is got food

It’s a bizarre scene

It smells of putrid

But he is there

In his private world

Yet his very privacy

Dangles out for all

That care to see

But who cares

His hair is unkempt

He wears but rags

A layer of dirt is dubbed

On his would be skin

He sits down in a corner

Which he monopolizes

Using rights as a primate

To have his fill

The vultures and marabou stalks

Respect the boundary line he is drawn

But would a pigeon with its grace

Hung out with these greasy birds?