Cabaret Ludwig

I’ll fly off to a fjord in Norway,
post “Oh the pain” above my doorway
if you insist on going your way,
           for this is not a duck.

That is what cowards say, and realists
who run away, shun the appeal its
rare white fur holds, although they feel it’s
           a rabbit full of pluck.

Let’s multiply, let’s twitch our noses,
let’s walk among the night’s dark roses,
though where the oldest story goes is
           a place where tongues might cluck.

I’ve had my share of quacks and hisses;
whereof mouth cannot speak, it kisses;
hop to it, man, and realize this is
           a lovely bit of luck.


More Poems by Rachel Wetzsteon