On an island called Mauritius, burly birds too unsuspicious
in no time shrank from thousands down to none.
Then clouds of pigeons flying by the millions started dying
from that novel apparatus called a “gun.”
And soon this whirling sphere was such that Man would disappear
unless he found a method to resettle
and escape the world’s affliction. So, akin to science fiction,
he filled this ever-cooling cosmic kettle
relentlessly inflating. It was pointless gravitating
to the notion he would ever play or sing,
not to mention reproduce. And yet he expertly let loose
a monumental force from which would spring
virgin bubble after bubble, while his own turned into rubble.
Like fireflies, they flashed and petered out.
Some were barren, uninviting, some were jazzy and exciting,
but the one they still all blather on about
was a province where the parrot and the lithe black-footed ferret
and the flying fox, blue whale and buffalo,
before they were imperiled, once had soared and swum and caroled,
and gloried in the sun’s abiding glow.
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