The Quail (An original poem by Edgar Allan Rex)

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Out upon a plain in Texas
With pellets in his solar plexus
Lay a Pioneer whose name was Harry Whittington.
He did not fall there in a war,
but fell instead to the muzzle roar
of an Italian shotgun held in the hands of our Vice President.

"Oh, fie! I am undone!" he cried,
As a trauma team rushed to his side,
And the local police were locked outside
Until the smell of scotch had time to clear.
And somewhere in the naked city,
on a pallid bust of Gordon Liddy,
a tiny quail has perched and squeaks,
"Good night! The end is near!"

Quoth the quail, "The end is near!"