The Tame Ducks

I have three tame ducks in my back yard,
Who wallow in the mud, and try real hard
To get their share and even more
of the overflowing backyard store.
They're fairly content with the task they're at
Of eating and sleeping and getting fat.
But when the wild ducks fly by
In a streaming line across the sky,
They cast a wishful and quizzical eye
And flap their wings and attempt to fly.
I think my soul is a tame old duck
Wallowing around in the barnyard muck,
It's fat and lazy with useless wings
But, once in awhile when the north wind sings
And the wild ducks hurtle overhead
It remembers something lost and almost dead,
And it casts a wistful eye
And flaps its wings and tries to fly.
It's fairly content with the state that it's in
But it isn't the duck that it might have been!