I worry, in my darker moments,

That I have nothing of the spirit

Of Bugs Bunny, majestic trickster extraordinaire,

That I am, in truth, perpetually contending

That it is Rabbit Season (when, of course,

It is only ever Duck Season),

Not fluid enough to slip into drag

to seduce Mr. Fudd,

or dish out monster manicures,

With perfect ease,

Not witty enough to flip

“Out” to “Safe” in the false umpires face,

But rather a permanent punch-line,

Calling for my own demise

Through spitting beak,

Raging on makeshift signs

Against stinking fate,

Sad and sullen,

And I am forever being redrawn and redrawn,

Into new perils,

Into thin air, falling-

Just another duck amuck.