Chiro Duck

Four days to Christmas, eyes aglow yet I remember some years back. We owned a duck, as white as snow he had a lengthy, ropy neck. Was called the chiropractic bird and had respect due to his shape. That Christmas he had overheard that at his neck's extended nape we'd planned to make a clean-through cut for turkeys were not our taste he saw himself in our pot a-roasting slowly, catching baste. Two days before the guillotine when splitting wood for winter heating he waddled by in glossy sheen his feathered suit for formal meetings and all the children said how mean to eat this little friend for dinner that we were lying, also cheating he who pretends must be a sinner. So guiltily we played his game he'd fetch the morsels of white bread but wholegrain wasn't quite the same and by tomorrow he'd be dead. His eyes did have a certain sadness my daughter cried and hers did too, so I decided that this madness would have to stop and I would do a quick trip down to butcher Pappy to see about a different species. That made the kids so very happy I turned and stepped in green duck faeces. So, start the Jeep and in reverse the stores are'nt waiting just for me, when loudly, plaintively, a curse comes to my ears, oh goodness me! Yes the impossible came true, the long-necked duck had tried to hide, or maybe aimed to hitch a ride the wheel had in old Newton's fashion shown little mercy in its mashing of feathers, flesh and feet and skin not recognizable by kin, but yet he tumbled still around, his head was dragging on the ground strange nervous function had beset him I cursed the day I had first met him. The axe was handy, me the oldest I certainly was not the boldest to put an end to misery I chopped his neck and set him free. I almost cried at such unfairness and for the children's full awareness the silence stunned for many hours we buried him, complete with flowers. That Christmas we ate many salads, and veggies, pumpkin, apple pie I should not write these tragic ballads; something inside me wants to cry.