What are you to do when you see a dead duck, <br />Its wings snapped like a coffee stirrer in Starbucks, <br />Its intestine exploded like vomit on Sunday morning, <br />And its beak, broken from its face? <br /> <br />Its eyes are like fried eggs, <br />Conspiring against the metaphorical bacon that is its feet. <br />Poor little duck, no longer can he quack, <br />If only he had just quacked off. <br /> <br />What are you to do when rigor mortis sets in, <br />And the duck starts jerking around on the floor? <br />Nothing probably. <br />Just watch and admire the beauty. <br /> <br />With feet like Catherine wheels, <br />Who needs fireworks for limbs, <br />Poor little duck, <br />No longer can he rest in peace, <br />If only he had just quacked off.<br /><br />Cornelia Ceilings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-unfortunate-beak/
