Ducks Will Fly

Yes, I could speculate about the past,
But I would rather dream of what's to come,
The moment when my love throws me a crumb
Or when my son goes on an eight-day fast
Protesting art sales on a scale so vast
That everybody suffers, mute and numb,
My second cousin calls his mother Scum,
And she says in return, "The boy's half-assed."

Yes, let us think about the future's shape:
We'll ponder why albinos love to skate
And bake cupcakes, and, when the hour grows late,
Show up with presents, in a cowl and cape.
I don't know how the duck plans to escape
The bonds of earth, but I could speculate.