Rooks

I despise these feathered apes
advancing onto the pitch
with their repulsive iridescence
and dark intentions.
My bêtes noirs could peck clear eyes,
strip soft flesh, and replace the Under 7s
with a pile of bones and boots
by the final whistle.
How could I prevent this?
I skirt round them;
bastards, reminding me of frailty
when I’m trying to watch the game.