What are you to do when you see a dead duck,
Its wings snapped like a coffee stirrer in Starbucks,
Its intestine exploded like vomit on Sunday morning,
And its beak, broken from its face?

Its eyes are like fried eggs,
Conspiring against the metaphorical bacon that is its feet.
Poor little duck, no longer can he quack,
If only he had just quacked off.

What are you to do when rigor mortis sets in,
And the duck starts jerking around on the floor?
Nothing probably.
Just watch and admire the beauty.

With feet like Catherine wheels,
Who needs fireworks for limbs,
Poor little duck,
No longer can he rest in peace,
If only he had just quacked off.

Cornelia Ceilings

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-unfortunate-beak/