The Ducken
By Edgar Allen Frogman
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I watched TV, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of infomercial lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a quacking,
As of some one gently smacking, smacking at my bedroom door.
“‘Tis some duck,” I muttered, “quacking at my bedroom door-
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak show about vacuums,
With mini-cyclones, increased suction to raise the dirt upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;–vainly I had sought to borrow
From my parents credit card so I could buy the super sucking thing to do my chore-
For the rare occasion I actually clean my floor-
Extra suction here for evermore.
Open here I flung the door, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately duck of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least waddle made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of duck, duck or goose, perched below my bedroom door-
Perched upon a bust of Yoda, just below my bedroom door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more…except for the crapping…evermore.
Then this orange-billed bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure a duck,
Ghastly grim and ancient duck waddling from the sewage lake shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonium shore!”
Quoth the duck, “Mr. Quackers, bitch…and nothing more.”
