By being dead the dodo gives
a warning in his narratives:
the dodo’s easy life was good.
Adapt or die? - the Hell he would!
So pigeon-like he pottered round
on safe, familiar, changeless ground.
Or so he thought. The world moved on;
new predators, the hunter’s gun,
invaded his once-private space
to eliminate the dodo race.
That cheery creature Tenniel drew
casts shadows over me and you.
Its numbers shrank. Bewildered, caught
in age-old attitudes of thought
the dodo’s bottom line was inked
as comic has-been, and extinct.