I Love Television

HEY READERS! While I am on vacation this week, busy yourselves with
the following poem, which I wrote and now read out loud every year at
the Thanksgiving table—usually while carelessly swinging a bottle
of booze. WARNING: Grab a tissue… this one’s a tearjerker!

When I was but a tiny lad, no more than five or six,

I received a most enjoyable pet, which was never spayed nor
fixed.

He wasn’t a pooch, he wasn’t a goat, a rat, a fish, nor yak.

My pet had wings (o, marvelous things!) and a beak with which to
quack.

A duck! A duck! O, wonderful luck! How very happy am I!

I shall name him “Quacky”—a drake both handsome and shy.

I’ll hug him, I’ll kiss him, I’ll call him sweet names, and never
shall we part.

I’ll always love my Quacky, from the bottom of my heart.

And so the days passed (some slow, some fast) for my ducky pal and
I.

I would take him to school for “show and tell” and feed him mulberry
pie.

And when the class bullies would beat me up, my duck would make them
pay!

He’d thrash ’em and bash ’em and smash ’em, and then would peck my
tears away.

In winter I dressed him in scarves and hats, and we skated on frozen
ponds.

In spring we picked flowers, and summer (for hours) we rolled on
freshly cut lawns.

But then came November (it hurts to remember), and father offered a
deal:

“I’ll trade you a puppy, or even a guppy, to make Quacky our
Thanksgiving meal!”

I was hurt and confused (and of course I refused!) and firmly put my
foot down!

My father said, “Fine! The duck we’ll decline!” and left without
another sound.

Waddling into view, Quacky said, “Phew!” and rejoiced over these
new-found facts.

Yet ignored the suspicious, and oh-so malicious, sound of Papa
sharpening his ax….

On Thanksgiving Day, as we sat down to pray, I quickly peeked at the
spread.

There was gravy and Jell-O and dressing and…. Hello! Quacky both
well-done and dead!

My pet was glazed with a creamy béarnaise, and then things
went all amok.

I went berserk! I lost my head and dashed out the door with the
duck.

My family and friends were in hot pursuit, screaming, “That’s our
dinner, you fool!”

But I couldn’t be caught and ran like a shot to throw Quacky in our
neighbor’s pool.

Kersplash! He went in, and so was the end to Quacky, the King of the
Birds.

And goodbye I said to my duck who was dead, with these final
heartfelt words:

“O, darling duck! O, delightful duck! O, dainty duck! O dear.

Yours was perhaps the wackiest quack a
human could ever
hear.

But now your beak is silent. I’ll hear your quack no more.

You’ve departed the ocean of life to waddle a distant shore.

“A duck! A duck! O, wonderful luck! How very happy was I!

And so I named you ‘Quacky’—a drake both handsome and shy.

I hugged you, I kissed you, I called you sweet names, and thought we
never would part.

I’ll always love you, Quacky, from the
bottom of my heart.”