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To a Duck ©

Joe Sharp
Stra'ven, Scotland
2005

I seldom ever, almost never, cross a bridge to ford a river
Down the banking I go spanking, till I reach the stream below
All my confidence a brimming, as I chance to go a swimming
With a waddling duck, a paddling duck, three ducklings in a row

As I hurry in a scurry through the muddy marshy slurry
The otters are a busy with their business to and fro
While a bitter chill is batting, my bill is chitter chatting
To a waddling duck, a paddling duck, three ducklings in a row

Though this may sound absurd, to a dicky ducky bird
With a dicky docky downy there to show
But a hilly billy chilly day, makes fluffy feathers fly away
From a waddling duck, a paddling duck, three ducklings in a row

In the summer of a morning, when the sunlight is a warming
Standing proud I quack and crow, of my plumage all a glow
A cacophony of cackling, is enough to raise the hackling
Of a waddling duck, a paddling duck, three ducklings in a row

This blissful peace alas soon over, as winter does to meadow clover
With farmer in a field of snow, the rifle rising oh so slow
Almighty bang and so much sorrow, there will never be tomorrow
For the waddling duck, the paddling duck, three ducklings in a row

The farmer lies in cosy bed, with rifle hung above his head
A feather quilted cover, when wintry winds do blow
And softly underneath his crown, a pillow stuffed with eiderdown
The waddling duck, the paddling duck, three ducklings in a row


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