A seagull’s lament

I may think a pasty is a crab

I may think that a dace is a dab –

it’s all food to me.

Do you see?

You may call me unhip

for my love of a chip;

or names worse than that

that you call –

I’ve heard them all.

You may shoo me off,

when I’m walking about

like a toff;

or lash out with a foot

but, I gracefully put

to flight,

and line you up for a present from aloft,

“Bombs away!”

Revenge is sweet,

and my landing is soft.

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