The Packbawky and the Boor

Near a tree in a glade where a packbawky sat
singing “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk,”
there a slobb’ring inebriate snorted and spat:
“Shut yer brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk!”
So the packbawky, knowing his song wasn’t sweet,
spread his black satin pinions and flapped his retreat,
though it pained him to leave with his song incomplete –
only “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk!”

As the boor snored another packbawky flew in
singing “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk,”
bringing mumblings of “Yah stoopid bird! Stop the din
of yah brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk!”
And although he’d lain down not in sun but in shade
he berated the blackbird for darkening his glade
‘til the falsely accused tried to stop his tirade,
pleading: “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk!”

Now the drunk, blind with fury at hearing the bird
crowing “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk,”
found a missile to fling up (a steaming cow turd)
at the “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk.”
As he clumsily pitched that fresh dump to the sky,
he looked upward and waited – I can’t tell you why –
and as gravity worked, the bird bade him goodbye,
sighing: “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk.”

After wiping the filth from his eyes, cursing God
for the “Brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk”
of the fleeing packbawky, he yelled out: “You sod!
with yer brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk!
If I catch you I’ll kill you, you aerial swine
and I’ll pluck you and truss your foul talons with twine,
then I’ll stuff you in places the sun doesn’t shine
to sing brawk, brk-brawk, brk-brawk!”

Copyright 2003-2004 Virge. Apologies to William S. Gilbert.

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