Theoretically and poetically, your flight's just a fluke,
A honk in the void, a desperate croak.
You flap like a king, but let's set this right-
A goose in the air is just panic in flight.

QUACK.

Talk about legacy, talk about might?
Yet one loose feather, and you're losing height.
You call it a HONK, we call it a wheeze,
Gasping for air while we surf the breeze.

QUACK.

Your "wingman Gooseph"-oh, what a joke!
Can't even guard a pond without getting choked.
Your strikes miss wide, your beak too slow,
One QUACK and we dip, leave ripples below.

QUACK.

See, I never needed a threat to soar,
No fences, no fears-just open door.
I believe in QUACKING with poise and precision,
Not some shrill, unholy, honking collision.

One QUACK and it's pure duck ascension.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Lupar, in the year 967 AF.