We Local Waterfowl Are Over Emily Dickenswan’s Song
She’s a recluse, she’s a cygnus, she’s got something dumb to say!
Emily Dickenswan — avian poet supposedly beyond compare — lives in Amherst, Massachusetts where she is only rarely seen at our local watering hole due to her tendency to hide out crafting verse. She writes stanzas, and yet can barely stanza our company at all!
That must be some great nest she’s got where she chooses to “dwell in possibility” instead of hanging with us geese and gang. You’d think she’d opt for actual friends over possible poems, especially since we can squawk her a couplet anytime she wants.
HONK HONK! That not good enough for you, Emily?
You need us to impress you with honk HONK honk HONK honk HONK honk HONK honk HONK? That’s right — some of us are loons but we still know iambic pentameter!
Listen, don’t buy into her fowl hype.
“Hope is the thing with feathers — /That perches in the soul — /And sings the tune without the words — /And never stops — at all — ” sounds romantic and all until you meet the actual Hope, who has a plucking problem and doesn’t deserve to be talked about like she’s an object just because she’s not the most photogenic of wood ducks.
