We be cooped up in these towers, brov;

Like them pigeons that no body wants around, blood;

Rats with wings and vermin, is what they call us like,

We be pigeons, in a world in love with doves;

Choice pickings don’t make it this far down;

Violent tussles over scraps,

Till we all be slipping on spilt blood;

And, scraping the bottom of a barrel,

To make do is what we do, brov;

That’s our lot in life,

And, we ain’t got a lot.