Cabaret Ludwig

I’ll fly off to a fjord in Norway, post “Oh the pain” above my doorway if you insist on going your way, for this is not a duck. That is what cowards say, and realists who run away, shun the appeal its rare white fur holds, although they feel it’s a rabbit full of pluck. Let’s multiply, let’s twitch our noses, let’s walk among the night’s dark roses, though where the oldest story goes is a place where tongues might cluck. I’ve had my share of quacks and hisses; whereof mouth cannot speak, it kisses; hop to it, man, and realize this is a lovely bit of luck.