Barnacle Bill Fights Fowl

A stumblebum amongst these my sleek bird comrades

I scrap for scran, my scrannel voice skriking

like a screech-owl among tawnies, a whooper among graceful white mutes.

I still have one good wing, but I’m told flying requires at least two –

though my broken pinion boasts a nice sharp bone-branch

to elbow the Canadas with when the donnybrook starts:

watch out you strutting Canucky duckies, I’m a southpaw now,

a cauliflower-beaked journeyman Barnacle on the bum of this lakeshore.

I give good value when the bell rings and the feeding frenzy starts:

kids, mums, dads, grans, they all love my crowd-pleaser ways. 

A champ I will never be, but don’t fret, I get my share of the nobbins.