What I writ on my holidays - Part 5

Today, there's nastiness in the news (I know, isn't there always) and worse responses and ranting, so, a little light doggerelly relief...

We’re off to ogle the ducks

We’re off to ogle the ducks,
No, not zeroes of cricket bad luck,
But down by the Severn,
It’s waterfowl heaven
With pondweed, lagoons and flat mud.

Sing ‘ho’ and let’s peer at some teal,
Flocking and paddling and quacking with zeal,
The blues and the greens,
In binocular’d scenes
Have a Farrow-and-Ball-painted feel.

Away now to watch us a wigeon,
Sans punt-guns that once stocked old kitchens,
Sat still in a hide,
Thermos flasks by our sides,
Bird-watchers perusin’ and twitchin’.

Now it’s time that we sought out a grebe,
Submerged in the bulrush and shallow-root reeds,
Like a cork in a cup,
The dabchick bobs up,
Ornithology’s bitchin’ indeed.

How diverse all those Anatidae,
Species both far-flung and natively nigh,
From Baikal teal (rare)
To mallards (we’ve spares)
And the geese still greylagging behind.

The ducks are now thoroughly ogled,
Each aquatically inclined wasser-vogel,
Fine larks and such fun
(A taxonomy pun)
And a flurry of verse anecdotal.