an ode to the bin chicken

oddly they prowl as owners of the land

where we once littered,

plunging their long beaks as they command.

“those are bin chickens” me mate once said

as we sat down, devouring our hot chips,

“careful mate, they’ll bite off your head.”

bin chickens? one has the right to feel scared

threatening with their presence gleaming,

on the grating metal our eyes paired.

a watery bird

a restless creature, an endless search

its sickle-shaped beak lies there quite absurd.

dumpster diving, debris-dirt-drawn

lurching, hurling, perching

swarming bins from dusk to dawn.

in it’s ecstasy, scoffing down the scraps

fruit, vegetables, onion rings,

it’s pride, it is joy, those feathery wings flap.

the breeze releases from its clutch

my nose goes into hiding,

“mate, the bloody bin chickens smell so much.”

picnic pirate, wreckless scavenger

slurping the juice of the food we refuse,

“mate that bird is a challenger.”

you have originality, that we can praise

bin chicken, you’re a true blue aussie,

with your lazy honk, and rapid escapes.

perhaps we could shine and bathe

in your bright smelly gleaming light,

the true title ibis, in the vast swathes,

there you feel just right.