Penguins can't fly, penguins can't soar,
but they gracefully poo upon the floor,
they smell like fish, they sound like horns,
but they're still the greatest birds to be born,
They're black and white, with orange beeks,
the stuff they eat seriously wreaks,
but we don't care, we love them dearly,
even if people can't see that clearly,
they really try as hard as they can,
to not be smelly menace to man,
but in the end, their diet tells,
as already said, it really smells,
so much so that humans run,
in the hope of a currant bun,
to calm their nerves, renew their heads,
but when they go and sleep in their beds,
a nightmare happens, first egg then bird,
all smothered in lemon curd,
waddling towards them with flippers high,
and beak all ready to peck out one's eye,
but then ailing human wakes,
the only birds they like now are malards and drakes,
having said all this the time is nigh,
to feast upon an apple pie,
and think of those birds on ice,
the talent, personality and curry with rice,
penguins rule the fat-bird world,
with flipper raised and beak no-doubt curled,
and after they have hatched their eggs,
they keep their children between their legs,
only a place where the daring go,
but i bet it's warm from ice and snow,
we'll leave it there, the last word said,
you now have penguins in your head.
