The broken birds all flock to the front seed
Of the Patron Saint of Bus Drivers
Eating grandfatherly love out of his hand.
The beady eye of the vagabond gulls
Can only look on their victims, not themselves.
Still Saint Francis in his squishy hat
Mocks sweetly the feather-plucked flesh
Of the stalkers, the loonies,
And the bitter Christmas sweater women
Who come displaying their disfigured claws.