Barnacle Bill Fights Fowl
A stumblebum amongst these my sleek bird comrades
I scrap for scran, my scrannel voice skriking
like a screech-owl among tawnies, a whooper among graceful white mutes.
I still have one good wing, but I’m told flying requires at least two –
though my broken pinion boasts a nice sharp bone-branch
to elbow the Canadas with when the donnybrook starts:
watch out you strutting Canucky duckies, I’m a southpaw now,
a cauliflower-beaked journeyman Barnacle on the bum of this lakeshore.
I give good value when the bell rings and the feeding frenzy starts:
kids, mums, dads, grans, they all love my crowd-pleaser ways.
A champ I will never be, but don’t fret, I get my share of the nobbins.