Ducklings! Throw up your wings in sorrow, for your adulthood sees naught but a plate!

The Swan is on indefinite leave,

Brown ducklings mourn the absence of their

Whitecrowned leader

Concrete-tile slap of their flat soles

Across sunken stones attracts tadpoles and 

Perches

In Druidic Sail

In droves, the ducklings are plucked and

Cooked as they grow

No Bill to grant immunity to such acts

Or offer reassurance

No jailbreak for infant ducklings.

Nothing but the cold breadth of blackened metal,

As they slide around steel lilipad-tomb

In prime cutlets

Red-faces seize knife and fork

Smacking their lips, mouths full of saliva

Rosy cuts of tender fowl

Eclipsed;

Enveloped by the throbbing human mouth

Of agriculture