Ducks keep saying 'quack' to me.
I run back to my shack to flee
From their relentless sermonising,
Louder than the German I sing

When I block my ears and try
To drown the sound, but they can fly
Around my head. These raids by air
Are scary when they graze my hair.

They ruin my healthy mop of it
When they crash-land on top of it.
I try to keep them occupied.
Excitedly, they flock to ride

The make-shift bumper cars I made
With trolleys I acquired through trade.
I got them in exchange for shoes,
Paintings of depressing views,

A tin of tuna sandwiches,
A bin of unused bandages,
A multi-purpose metal pole
And one full bag of Polish coal.

The ducks enjoy their bumper cars.
They hold the stumps of old cigars
Between their beaks while they pretend
They're driving tanks to help defend

A land where ducks can run the banks
And be long-standing, spiteful cranks
Who dominate the radio,
Complaining from their daily show.

When ducks are seeking to impress
They'll sit on deckchairs, playing chess.
They'll briefly cease their lecturing
To knock your rook and peck your king.

I've thought of making Peking Duck
And getting pets who speak in cluck.
I'd cook these cold quack doctors who
Would be good-natured in a stew,

More appetising than my meals
Of rabbits' eyes and rubber heels.
They're spreading rumours that I've got
A bin to hide a stash of pot.

These pets will gleefully allege
I'm hiding moonshine in a hedge,
And that I've got a tank of rum
Concealed inside a huge bass drum.

They've made the wear and tear of care
Appear in lines that frame my glare.
They've painted madness on my face.
They've made me look like my head's case

Is made with nuts, at best half-baked,
And bits of fruit with raisons faked
By soaking flies in cheap red wine
That makes me scream when sleep is mine.

I'm used to being shunned and banned
While these vile ducks are in demand.
They get invited to events,
To dine in clubs with cultured gents,

Or weddings where their waddling brings
Great joy as they convey the rings.
While they attend a funeral
My rarely-seen good humour'll

Return while I enjoy the peace
Of being hassled by police
Who look in bins and under hedges,
Smashing down my doors with sledges.

I revel in the calm repose,
The soothing sound of psycho crows
Who fight reflections on the glass.
Unlike the ducks, they act with class.