The Swan
Look at the swan.
He won’t be gone
He’s only busking.
Look at the swan.
He won’t be gone
He’s just a busking.
The swan is lifting up his
wings,
Immense and white and
powerful things.
Above the water feathers
sweep,
Enough to make the fearful
weep.
For when these wings begin to
flap
He really is a scary chap.
These dreadful wings make
such a threat;
And does it scare me? Yes.
You bet.
He does this busking every
day
So nothing bad can come his
way.
He isn’t bothered by a boat.
He hates some other things
that float.
And fish and birds, and you
and me
He hates them all, most
things he sees
His long and pointy orange
beak
Is like a snowy mountain
peak.
Although we cannot see his
feet
They are still going, beat,
beat, beat
But if the breathing was to
stop
The swan would shout, “Oh. Fizzle Pop.”
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