The Darkling 'Dactyl

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
In a few of my lit classes we've had to read what are called "bird poems." They're exactly what they sound like, but they're very important to certain eras of British literature. Think Keats's "Ode to a Nightengale" or Shelley's "To a Skylark".

This a line-for-line rewriting of Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush" (which can be read here: I replaced the thrush with a pterodactyl, because thrushes are lame, and pterodactyls are the best thing. I also slightly changed the setting, meaning, and tone. I am turning this in for a grade in a week, so let me know if you've got any ideas.

There is also a version about Darkwing Duck.

Submitted: October 24, 2011

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Submitted: October 24, 2011



To Thomas Hardy, Percey Bysshe Shelley, John Keats, and anyone else who wrote a famous bird poem. You are all pretentious dicks.


The Darkling 'Dactyl


I perch'd upon a cliff and ate,

When land was full buffet.

And running was done, desperate,

Which made for weakened prey.

The tangled masses run to die.

Chase bolstered just my ire.

And all the time I hunted high,

I sought them 'til I tire.


On land's sharp features seemed to be,

A score of dead outleant.

I view this crypt from canopy.

From me their death was meant.

So, this current sight brought no mirth,

A hunter, high and dry.

And every spirit upon the Earth

Seem'd fervorless as I.


At once a squeak arose! That tongue!

A broken twig ahead.

Being wholehearted and headstrong,

I dive, speed unlimit'd.

The aged beast, frail, gaunt, and small,

Its terror-fueled fume

Has drawn me to tear it a hole,

And leave a new blood bloom.


So very much cause for carolings,

Of such desperate sound,

Writ in terrestrial feedings.

Not here nor far around

Was an animal that snuck through

This happy, good-night air.

So, some poor creature, somewhere knows

That I am quite aware.

© Copyright 2018 Jack Flagberry. All rights reserved.

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