The March

A waddle of Emperors, huddled against Arctic ice.
Moving, moving their slow, majestic beaks
Forward toward their destination.

Shadows thrown by a cateracted sun.
Snow thick and blurring
On they trudge, on they trudge,
Forward toward their destination.

Now a stopping, shuddering among the ranks.
The furry footed masses hear
Kalashnikov-fire

Huddled, huddled against arctic ice,
Going onward
Onward! Forward!
Toward their destruction.