The Duckling

A poem about an orphaned duckling, done in limerick form

The Duckling

One day while in Harbor Springs,
We found a small duck, of all things.
Since he hadn't a mother,
A sister or brother,
We adopted this fine-feathered thing.

He gladly ate oatmeal and toast
Of good health he could readily boast.
But when we gave him a drink
We never did think
That it'd cause him to give up the ghost.

It seemed like an innocent can
It held tuna, not turkey or ham,
But it also had oil
So his wings it did soil
And left him in quite a bad jam.

Now this really isn't a joke
But that poor little duck couldn't float
He sank like a rock
That was tossed from a dock,
He was more like a sub than a boat.

What good is a duck that can't swim?
Others laugh and will poke fun at him
But he floats now on high
In the pond in the sky
And is happy to splash and to swim.

So if you must nurture a duck
I wish you the very best luck
The lesson is easy
Don't let him get greasy
Or his feathers are as good as been plucked.


© 2001 Sharon Lee