The Duck

When I am looking at a duck
I see its long-brimmed bill.
I say “Oh duck, it’s been so long.
They turn and drop their quills.

The ducks, you see
Write poetry;
They do it in the lake.
They scribble fast
Their minds ablaze
They rarely take a break.

Here’s a poem
From a duck
I’m not supposed to have it;
It fell from one of their writer sessions
And as it fell
I grabbed it

Cluck, cluck
Cluck cluck cluck:
Strangers in the night;
My feet are webbed
My bill is long
Fake Feed me and I’ll bite.”

And there I was…
Standing there at the dock,
Without a piece of bread;
And while I fake feed all the ducks—
This one just bit my head!

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