Bagged, tagged, and bloated round through the middle,
Comes again; landing lightly on my lake.
It’s dry cracked bed lies; Swan feed word-kibble,
Easily chased off by Browning or Blake.
SQUAWK, SQUAWK, SQUAWK; On and on, and on, and on,
Never ceasing and never conceding,
Will I ever through my ink feed the Swan?
“Swan, Swan! here’s my attempt at feeding.”
It’s green, huge, body makes it’s way to me,
She looks at me, judging, will she take it.
Her head turned and leaned in so she could see,
She smirked, squawked, and disappeared for a bit.
She returned, dressed me in baby bonnets,
She stared and said, “I FUCKING HATE SONNETS!”

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