There are three tame ducks in our back yard
Dabbling in mud and trying hard
To get their share and maybe more
Of the overflowing barnyard store,
Satisfied with the task they're at
Of eating and sleeping and getting fat.
But whenever the free wild ducks go by
in a long line streaming down the sky,
They cock a quizzical puzzled eye
And flap their wings and try to fly.
I think my soul is a tame old duck
Dabbling around in barnyard muck,
Fat and lazy with useless wings.
But sometimes when the north wind sings
And the wild ones hurtle overhead,
It remembers something lost and dead,
And cocks a wary, bewildered eye
And makes a feeble attempt to fly.
It's fairly content with the state it's in,
But it isn't the duck it might have been.