They say that I need my ducks in a row, 

Life’s a bit dodgy, my psyche hum ho. 

I second their logic, order makes sense, 

This isn’t the time to sit on the fence. 

I quickly hop down, my ducks to secure, 

My will to the task, my aim to concur. 

I set off with vigor to queue-up those fowl, 

Eager and brash I am soon on the prowl. 

Find it ain’t easy to wrangle a duck, 

They elude every trick, laugh at my luck. 

One’s hid in a tree, the next ‘hind my back, 

I get two lined up, the third’s out of whack. 

The fourth and the fifth play rummy for cash, 

While the sixth dives for eels with nary a splash. 

By the way, how many ducks make a row? 

Tell me, be honest, I really must know. 

Lots more than three, I am sure, less than what? 

One dozen, a hundred, where is the cut? 

Gathering ducks, much less herding the drakes, 

Sisyphean task, make no mistake. 

I expend every effort to get ‘em, 

Concede I require fresh stratagem. 

Indeed, I’m chagrined, I thought that I could, 

These quackers are impugning my manhood. 

How hard could it be to waddle in place? 

A duck, after all, is lightness and grace. 

But it’s one in the hand and two’n the bush, 

The harder I try, the harder they push. 

If them Daffies would simply c'operate, 

The taking of Prozac it’d obviate. 

The conclusion I’ve reached is hard to deny, 

This lining up ducks is pie in the sky. 

I’ll never see these damn ducks in a row, 

I’m resigning myself to a lifetime of woe.

Hanque O . . .