Malcolm the Mallard, a feathered fiend, Had a taste for butter, a greasy keen. He’d stalk the park with a glint in his eye, For picnics spread open beneath the sky.
A plump little package, wrapped gold and bright, Lured him closer, a buttery delight. With a waddle and waddle, he’d sneak up near, As moms turned their backs for a sip of cold beer.
Then, with a yank and a feathery tear, He’d snatch up the butter, oh so dear! Leaving greasy prints, a webbed-foot mess, On the checkered blanket, a buttery stress.
Little Susie would scream, tears in her eyes, Her toast left bare, a buttery demise. Malcolm would cackle, a villainous quack, Butter dripping down his feathery back.