The Unfortunate Beak
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.