Cabaret Ludwig

I’ll fly off to a fjord in Norway,

post “Oh the pain” above my doorway

if you insist on going your way,

           for this is not a duck.

That is what cowards say, and realists

who run away, shun the appeal its

rare white fur holds, although they feel it’s

           a rabbit full of pluck.

Let’s multiply, let’s twitch our noses,

let’s walk among the night’s dark roses,

though where the oldest story goes is

           a place where tongues might cluck.

I’ve had my share of quacks and hisses;

whereof mouth cannot speak, it kisses;

hop to it, man, and realize this is

           a lovely bit of luck.