DODO BIRD
The day that the last Dodo died
I'm quite assured that no one cried
Or testified and sang his praises
Or knelt beside his casket laces.
I often wonder did he mind
To be the last bird of his kind?
Or was he thus so lonely fettered
He did not wonder any better?
He must have been confused about
Such inborn instincts so in doubt.
To sing his love coo's to a thrush
Or dance amore with a bush.
So sad a tale I can't recall
So how then should it thus befall
He might be even proud to know
We laugh now when we say Dodo.
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