This duck walked into a pub
and went straight up to the bar.
The barman made a joke about
not serving ducks under eighteen
and tried to shoo it out.
But the duck would not be shoon.
It waddled around to the back bar
quacking as it were last orders
to the few remaining customers
in the Sun Inn that afternoon.
So the barman fetched the barmaid
who tried to show the duck the door.
But the duck would not be shown.
So the barman fetched the manager,
but the three of them had no luck.
Seeking guidance from above, the manager
brought down the landlord and his wife,
and all five, armed with tea towels,
cornered the duck between the Ladies
and the fruit machine and overpowered it.
They were gentle, they were kind,
and their concern was for the welfare
of the web-footed intruder, the green-headed
alien away from his loved ones
and longing for home, Quack Quack.
So the landlord, followed by the landlady,
the manager, the barman and the barmaid
carried the duck, swaddled in tea towels,
across the High Street to the pond
that lies in the middle of the green.
‘There you go, Donald, you naughty duck,’
said the landlord setting it free.
And his staff were pleased with their good deed,
and so, totally unprepared for the commotion
that followed. The sudden violence and murder.
Angels at four o’clock. While two fastened
on to its bill keeping it closed, the others
pecked and stabbed, turned it over
and dragged it under. Helpless, the rescuers
watched it drown in a bullseye of bubbles.
Stunned, they returned to the Sun
and tried to make sense of it all.
Synchronized drowning, bloodlust or justice?
Heads down, tails up, dabbling free.
Have you heard the one about the duck? No joke.