Beware of social climbers
Daisy was the sort of duck
Who didn't give a pheasant's pluck
For anything except herself.
Her fresh laid eggs were help yourself.
To reach the top, she'd climb your back,
Insist on having, the last quack.
Preen herself in any quarter,
Using mirrors on the water.
Till that day, when she was smitten,
By a loudmouth, booming Bittern.
Was this love reciprocated?
Nope. He killed her, once he'd mated.