A Merrie Discourse Betwixt Two Ducks

Upon the pond, where lilies float, Two ducks did meet, each fine of coat. Their feathers gleamed ‘neath gilded light, And thus began their feath’ry fight. Quoth Drake to Dame, with pufféd chest, “Good wench, thy quacking lacks finesse! Thy tones do clatter, coarse and crude, Like pebbles cast in solitude.” The Dame, unruffled, gave a grin, “Thy jests, dear Drake, art weak and thin. Thy waddle doth betray thy girth, A gluttony unfit for mirth.” “Ha!” cried the Drake, his beak askew, “’Tis rich from one so fond of stew! Dost thou not sup on weeds and muck, Whilst I, with grace, pluck finest duck?” The Dame did scoff, her feathers flared, “Thy boasts are naught but hot air bared. Pray, speak not of thy ‘noble feed,’ For bread thou seek’st, in beggar’s need!” “Zounds!” quoth the Drake, “Thy tongue’s a blade, Yet mine shall strike a sharper raid. Thy nest, I’ve heard, is poorly made— A wretched heap in moss decayed.” The Dame, unbowed, gave sly retort, “My nest, though humble, holds the fort. Whilst thou dost prance and preen with pride, I guard my eggs where love doth bide.” At this, the Drake was caught amiss, And stammered, “Nay, I meant not this! Thy quacking’s fine, thy waddle grand, The fairest duck in all the land!” The Dame did laugh, her eyes alight, “Thy tongue turns soft beneath my might. But peace, dear Drake, let’s end this spat— For ‘tis but folly, duckish chat.” And so they swam, the quarrel done, Beneath the amber-setting sun. Two ducks, their wit as sharp as steel, Proving jesting hearts can also heal.