Muscovy Duck
Warning 1: here comes a crazy/nonsense poem I have just written, and I know ducks don't run but is sounds better than swam. Warning 2: Don't read the last stanza and if you do, well it is your fault if you don't think I should have made it end that way, also you are naughty, because I just told you not to read it. But of course I said that so you will have to read it I suppose. Well I warned you!
Muscovy Duck
I had a Muscovy duck called
Plucky
And considered myself quite lucky
Until she grew so large
That people thought she was
a barge
When really she was a duckie
One bad thing about my duck
Is she turns the river to
muck
But she lays ovate eggs
The size of five hundred litre kegs
To move them I need a truck
My ducks feather size is
rather whopping
So when her wings I was chopping
I kept one lovely feather
For a fan in hot weather
But then I sold it while out
shopping
My Muscovy duck loves to
play
But she swam far down the
river one day
And met with a drake
By the name of Pancake
And together they ran far away
Now that is the end of my
story
Because what happened after
this gets gory
You don’t want to know
How plucky was turned into
dough
So back up there was the end
of the story
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