Doves, their temperament like biter widows,

Their pasty frock like Karl Laggerfeld’s most uninspired winter line,

But hark! What do I see?

A hawk hovering over.

A hawk that will pluck the feathers off the dove’s neck

like Bacchus being bled of wine,

To tear at flesh and sinew,

A hawk merciless to gorge upon

Sweet, succulent doves.

A hawk ravenous by nature,

Though possessing plumage like the best spring line of Donna Karen,

It swoops like gods wrath from above,

The crag of limbs snapped in its beak,

A dove knows no mercy from this specter,

..and guess as you may how long it would take to kill,

Any wager is but mere conjecture.

Doves are food for hawks

.

[Edited 4/11/11 6:08am]