I heard a funny story the other day
about Penguins who nest close to the end of a runway.
Living on a small island that is all rock with no sand,
they are not use to seeing large planes come and land.
It's freezing cold, so turn their backs to the raging wind,
most huddle together whilst others prefer to swim.
In the distance, and through the falling snow,
a plane comes towards them and they watch it slowly grow.
With eyes fixed and beaks held high
they watch this apparition approach from the sky.
And when they look up, as it passes straight overhead,
they all fall over backwards as if suddenly shot dead.
Please note. No penguins were hurt in the making of this poem.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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