Stork, stork, I am hoarse.
Sitting with a frog
Upon a log.
There is no clog
In my throat to speak of,
But your gifts in my lap
Do nap.
And I recoil
Like oil,
Stale from days of blackness
Burning wicks of war.
I thought you were supposed to bring gladness.
But now I'm not so sure.
You lost a feather in my pool.
It floated on the surface.
You are diseased, I know,
You molt and cannot fly straight.
So do not come! Take back your sack,
A parcel pink and fleshy
Like a grub, undug from earth
More comfortable.
More fitting.
