Oh please. I wish these besotted wood pigeons would stop being so romantic and would leave out the never ending COOCOOCOOO COOCOOCOOO COOCOOCOOOs outside my window. Do they not have deadlines to meet, errands to run? Is what you might ask. Let me assure you that they do not. They spend each and every day for hours plumping their already fat breasts and plomping from fence to lawn to tree to street lamp where they nestle together whispering sweet nothings to one another. Did I say (type) whispering? I meant COOCOOCOOOing ringing out their love, screaming it

Edgar Van Hoover where is my rifle?

Sing it now streeeeeeeeeeeeet laaamp it�s the only lamp I know streeeeeeeeeeeeet lamp

I-want-to-be-a-lamplover-too-soso