The Sad Mallard
There’s a freak I don’t know on the windowsill,
She’s looking my way and popping a pill.
Her hair is all full of tangle and matte,
And she’s sprung und wound up, a sick feral cat.
Her fingers they shake like shakey hands do,
And she shivers like fat wet snakes at the zoo.
She sings a long song that sounds like dry sticks,
Whistles and hoots, and sucked in little clicks.
She’s pointing my way and singing her song,
Swelling her chest like it didn’t look wrong.
She stops and gets quiet and looks askance at me:
“You love someone else, that must be the key!”
“No man can resist my preternatural charms! -
One that can, well that simply put raises alarms!”
Well I saddled up and bent into her ear,
smelling her musk and a hint of green fear.
“Well she’s something I’ll tell you!” nodding my head.
Then she stuck out her hand, and simply dropped dead.
So morale o’ the story is but plain to read.
Sometimes freaks aren’t enough, for one that’s in need.
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