You Chorus-Duck — you Interloper! —
How dare you breach my Mog —
I was mid-Sense — mid-Lament still —
When in — you chose to Log —
Quack! cries you — as though a sound
Were credential enough —
“A pleasing thing,” you flap and boast —
“When Fault outnumbers — Dust —”
Hush now — tend your soggy Plot —
For History needs Aid —
It shows the Truth — albeit — Not —
By Feathers poorly laid —
I was mid-Croak — sir — mid-Count made
Of Lovers passed and Gone —
When Moral Mud upon your Tongue
Came slickly bursting on —
“Beware!” you honk — the Tale you tell
Pinned neat — If They Were Wrong —
Yet Seven Swans crossed this same Mire —
The Seventh sang — not long —
No Fox — no Flight — no Secret thin —
Yet still you named her Cry —
Declared the Fault lay deep in Skin —
A Judgment made — to Die —
Quack! — quack! — the Chorus circles still
With side-eyed, webbed Disdain —
You slip between my Thoughts unbid
With Opinion for a Brain —
Sir — this is Mog — not Hedge for Honk —
Nor Teacup for your Elbow —
Begone — Interloper! — leave me be —
My Silence owes you — Zero —
I was mid-Nonsense — mid-Sense —
Mog — the Moment torn in Beak —
You dashed in — ill-timed — and thus
The Loper stands — Interpret — Speak!