An Ode to Penguins

Oh fine feathered flightless fowls,
Puttering about heedless in the deep,
while a crimson critter prowls,
juicy treats away to sweep.

So here I hide,
my time to bide,
until you waddle
where I toddle.

A silly sign - of course it's mine -
set up in your merry way
and penguin steaks, like lemmings, hooray!
traipse into my trap, all mine mine mine.

- Written to commemorate one of Stalin's more memorable penguin hunts, involving a forged road sign, which the tasty but gullible foodstuffs were unaware led to a specially constructed penguin slicer.