I am the lord of pigeons. They give me their praise, and for their steadfastness I give them bagels uncountable. For their transgressions I give only what they deserve - they can have no rest for they will find their dwellings thrown down, the detritus of their forefathers' labors spilled upon the asphalt, free for the lesser birds to take and to have.

But it cannot be said that I am an unjust god. For woeful though their trials may be, they will find life for time immeasurable after their own lives have expired, for I shall taxidermy them and fill my house with these last testaments of their lives.

Please help me. I'm running out of space for them.