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Native to the isle of Logor, this mutated rhea
is now far flung as fruit flies, but just why, I’ve no idea,

for most resent its tanned and pleasant, bland, incessant call.
Yet rheas, lithe and leggy, are my favorite birds of all:

zephyrs of the pampas, with their lustrous onyx eyes,
they’re quiet as a mouse in church – though mice of such a size

are seldom seen around the house, haven’t left a fossil,
and were this not the case my bill for cheese would be colossal.

So what took place on Logor’s wretched isle, just north of Guinea,
to cause this blithe and gentle bird to blither like a ninny --

to warp my finest feathered friends into this yawping choir,
bloviating variants of those infesting Diar?

For now a million gauchos with a hundred million bolas,
the gondoliers of Venice in their fragile dark gondolas,

the Mongol hordes, the army ants, the Aztecs and the Mayans,
the elephants of Hannibal, the lion tamer’s lions,

the Count of Monte Cristo plus the Spanish Inquisition,
kings and queens of disco on a suicidal mission,

the bulls and bears of Wall Street, English knighthood in its flower,
Bill and all his buffaloes, the hero of the hour,

the cavalry of Custer, legionaries launched by Rome
and Davey Crockett couldn’t send the Logorrhea home.