Franz, a Goose

It is contagious as a dance,
The morning exultation of the goose
Whose inappropriate name is Franz.
Daily he comes, majestic and snow-white,
To put his private pond to use,
To stand alone within the rite,
And make ovations to pure self-delight.

As one long waving sleeve, he dips
Soft neck, blue eyes, and orange beak
Deep into waters where the magic sleeps.
Now up, now down, in hieratic bliss,
Gives them the dark caress they seek,
Then lifts that giant arm, weapon and grace
To shake a rain of diamonds to the grass.

Can one describe superb-as-these ablutions,
This royal pomp as a mere daily wash?
The liquid phrase, the lovely repetitions?
His squawks are murmurs now. He sings.
Then with one huge triumphant splash
Enters the pond and beats his wings:
“I am the goose of geese, the king of kings!”

Who could resist such pride or pull it down?
Yet who resist one tentative caress,
To touch the silken neck that wears a crown?
I dare the irresistible in play,
To meet a cold blue eye and blazing hiss.
His person rises up in terrible dismay,
And talks of the indignity all day.

Followed at just two paces by his queen
(Uxorious murmurs lead her gently on),
He makes his progress like a paladin,
Explains, complains of the so rude caress,
And how pomp trembled yet achieved disdain,
Assures her that he gave a fatal hiss,
Assures himself what a great goose he is.