The Dead Duck

The Dead Duck.

The oak tree with mossy green at its base, serves as the last resting place
For the duck, a female mallard, her neck candy-floss red, her eyes open in surprise,
The brown and white feathers lost their gloss, as she merges into the leaves and
Mud, a couple of plump ducks waddle past, death is of no concern, nature is no
Forensic detective asking who did it, who killed the broad in daylight, was she
The victim of Spring, as the drakes attempted to copulate, in eagerness
She took fright, and in midflight like a Russian airliner, crashed into the tree,
Her bill in the longitudinal looks like Julia Roberts and a cross with shellfish,
Her demeanor sadly comical, destined for the bin liner, as the park attendant
Will dispose of her corpse as if were garbage, the dead duck in the supermarket
Wets lips of those who taste the crisp flesh, but here, she is a piece of shit
The oak tree with mossy green at its base, serves as the last resting place.