Homer watched over park’s blowhards wooing minds of their blind dates,

Wondering why only alone ones spun fun crumbs at ave mates,

Alighting from his search-perch when seeding ceded needed rates

From those not-so-observant eyeservants rationing what sates—

As though wheat-replete street would produce profound unfortunates

If bread staled dead for croutons, pudding—pigeon’s hallowed feast fates. ; )