Saturday, April 25, 2026

Web Log Weekender for 4.24-25.26

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I've given up the blog and gone to the lake. So far I've not done that...but at some point I will.

Animals

"Birdsong is something that can be a vital part of your well-being for years without you noticing or appreciating it, like having intact internal organs."



Shared by Neithan Hador on the Mirror. Google says the picture was posted on Facebook, and warns that although any orphan chicks you adopt from Tractor Supply will probably enjoy snuggling under a feather duster, you have to watch to make sure they don't pull the feathers apart or pull the duster down on themselves, which could result in injuries.

Frugality

How NOT to set up a wood stove.


Lens says this one's been floating around the Internet for a long time, found on Facebook and even on Etsy (to illustrate an ad for a wood stove). In this case the source is thought to be known. According to the plagiarism-ware Lens has started shoving in front of the links, the photo was taken "by John Collier for the Farm Security Administration" in the 1940s and features Mrs. Boris Komorosky of Hartford, Connecticut, in her cozy-looking but unsustainable kitchen. I'm inclined to believe that this is accurate because "Mrs. Boris Komorosky" doesn't sound like a screen name.

* The stove needs a metal "pad" or "mat" under it to protect that wood floor.

* The stove should stand away from the walls, to prevent fires.

* That upholstered sofa should be at least as far from the stove as the cane-bottom chair. 

* And that light-colored wallpaper is going to look dreadful before springtime. Rooms with wood-burning stoves or fireplaces should have washable walls.

Men's Issues 

This is soooo wrong. Some people think the big political divide these days is between those who want to prop up the old, unsustainable Social Security scheme by bringing in immigrants, and those who want to prop up the old, unsustainable Social Security scheme by having too many babies. We can't afford either of those bad alternatives. We have to make plans for our old age that allow for the human population to shrink back to sustainable levels. We have to celebrate the fact that many young people aren't even waiting to have children, but ruling out the option. We have to want fewer and better, in the sense of healthier, grandchildren. 

Also wrong: the myth that, "biologically," if men hadn't done the engineering we'd still be living in caves. Only in a few human cultural groups have men done the engineering. In cultures where advanced architecture and mechanical science have existed, a minority of women have done a minority of the engineering. Most women who are free to cultivate their own talents have talents for other things, and women whose talents are for engineering have often been discriminated against, so it's remarkable that women have, nonetheless, built and designed things--houses, bridges, and machines. If men hadn't done the engineering, the things humans build to make our lives easier would probably be smaller, easier to manage (more rondavels, fewer skyscrapers), more slowly and thoughtfully worked out, and more sustainable. Male hyperactivity has blasted and zoomed further forward at a time, and often needed to take several steps back. Male hyperactivity has led to wars...without it, Europe might have achieved a civilized democracy, somewhere, by now.

And, for individual women, most disastrously wrong: Being chosen by a good woman to be a father has a stabilizing effect on some men, but it also turns mostly harmless slacker-boys into Deadbeat Dads. Once they're out of diapers, as the saying goes, nobody can change them. A man who already is stable, reliable, honest, loyal, and self-disciplined may be improved by marriage; a man who is impulsive, emotional, and self-centered will be totally "unmanned" by it, and run away--if not from the birth process, certainly from a teething baby. 

A better guide might be: Any masculinity that seriously considers doing what makes babies outside of marriage, or before the couple have saved enough money to afford the baby, or after the couple already have a baby, is toxic. A man whose attitude toward sex is irresponsible and irreverent needs celibacy, sometimes years of celibacy, and he may never mature into a responsible husband and father. The purpose of dating is to identify men who can make plans and stick to them, and, that done, identify men who need to hear the words "stop" or "no" more than once. If he's not on time for a date, no more dates for him. If he wants "more" demonstrations of affection, it's time to step back, blow him a goodbye kiss, and let him work on his relationship with himself.

If he scores high on reliability and self-control, he might be worth keeping. Jamie Wilson is right about one thing. A good man is one of the wonders of nature. Borders, in fact, on being a miracle.


Music 

One of the blog posts I read over the weekend explains why Seventh-Day Adventists love Handel's Messiah so. It quotes all their favorite Bible verses! 



From Handel I didn't dive directly into pop music--too much contrast--but eventually I did listen to this authentic 1974 digitized version of the background music that was piped into many stores in the 1970s. The person who shared it thought it sounded spooky. I think one particular tune sounds depressed, but I hear it as bland music, generally...


Then in the 1980s and 1990s some of us were interested in composing new "fusions" of traditional and original music, for contemporary or antique or electronic instruments, preferably a mix of all three. This set of tubular bells tunes is heavy on the contemporary side, but without putting the physical tubes up against someone's head before striking them, it's hard to go too far wrong with tubular bells.


Edward Elgar.


Horse.


Tom Petty.



Beethoven...but if you watch the video, the man appears to be playing the piano for a friendly elephant. I think it's real. If it's a computer simulation, it's well done.


Avishai Cohen.



Shmuel Perdnik. The words are Hebrew and, according to LyricsTranslate.com, they mean:

"I shall await the LORD,

I shall entreat his favor,
I shall ask Him
to grant my tongue eloquence.

I shall await the LORD,
I shall entreat his favor, ay ay ay
I shall ask Him
to grant my tongue eloquence.

In the midst of the congregated nation
I shall sing of His strength;
I shall burst out in joyous melodies
for his works.

In the midst of the congregated nation
I shall sing of His strength;
I shall burst out in joyous melodies
for his works.

(X3)
The thoughts in man's heart are his to arrange,
but the tongue's eloquence comes from the Lord.
O LORD, open my lips,
so that my mouth may declare Your praise.

I shall await the LORD,
I shall entreat his favor,
I shall ask Him
to grant my tongue eloquence."



Joshua Aaron. This is said to be a Hebrew version of the example prayer Jesus gave His disciples, "the Lord's Prayer." The original prayer was probably spoken in Aramaic, but was transcribed in Greek--in both cases the vernacular languages His mostly working-class disciples spoke on the street, not the classical Hebrew some of them learned at school. But if Jesus were here today, can anyone doubt that He would speak modern Hebrew?


Neil Finn.


Tom Goux.


Leonard Bernstein.


40 Fingers.


America. (Many nominations for Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs. Some people love it. I thought the tune was catchy enough to suspend judgment until I found an official statement whether the song is or is not about heroin, the "horse" that carries addicts into their dreams that start out so nice and then become nightmares. The writer's official statement is that it's about open-air meditation. Visions induced by desert conditions? Possible.)



The Stranglers' hard rock version of Patsy Kline's "Walk On By."


The Cars.


The Who.


John Anderson.


New York 

"Dirty Yankees" is acquiring a new meaning, we are told. The phrase used to refer to people who sewed their long woolen underwear up tight around the neck in September and left whatever remained of it on until Memorial Day. (Southerners tidied our graves. Northerners sent their underwear out to be burned while they howled and shivered through their first, some said their only, bath of the year.) I don't know. Maybe those people really existed at some place and time. New York State does regularly log the coldest temperatures in the 48 contiguous States.

But New York City, it seems, now has hordes of homeless people.

Most of Washington's homeless weren't as dirty as you might think. Trying not to be noticed as homeless made them careful. The city's full of stores, restaurants, libraries, gas stations, places where people can nip in and use the conveniences. Jars with tight-sealing screw-on lids made sleeping areas hard to find. 

In New York, it seems, the homeless are loud and in-your-face. Mayor Mamdani, chortles Joe Jackson, has put the P P in the Big Apple. Citations for public urination are forming a real crime wave.


Parenting


Google says: "The image was taken in St Petersburg, Florida, and was published in the St Petersburg Times in May 1969, featuring Mrs. T.R. Cronin. The photographer, Ricardo Ferro, titled the image "Is This Your Litter, Lady?""

Before people go into "how could she" mode, consider: Baby is at the age where Baby likes practicing standing up while bracing against things. Baby could be in an expensive "baby walker" frame that wouldn't move easily on grass, but instead Baby is in what happens to be available, free of charge, and to fit perfectly. This did not become a fad because the trend of the time was to attach litter baskets to posts sunk deep in the ground, to stop them blowing into windows in hurricanes, or being stolen... I've not seen one of those freestanding baskets in years. But when they were clean and empty they were pretty good frames for babies to practice standing up in. 

Note Baby's face...concentrating, learning, not protesting. If Baby had been turned toward Mrs. Cronin, yelling and waving to be let out and picked up, she would have picked Baby up or faced unpleasant social consequences. But Baby likes being where and doing what Baby is.

When one of you Nephews was a few months older than that infant, walking easily but not always understanding where you weren't supposed to walk, you had a "backpack." Your big brother had a backpack to carry his books to school, and you had one with strings attached to lead your mother, aunt, and grandmother all over town. As long as you stuck to public footpaths and walkways you were leading. When we balked and became hard to lead was when you started to walk out into traffic, or onto someone's property. 

You enjoyed using your backpack on walks with us, I'm glad to say, even after foolish people tried to tell you that you were "on a leash like a dog." I suppose, technically, a toddler harness does work like a leash for a dog...and so? How bad is that?

Friday, April 24, 2026

Bad Poetry: Desserts

This post combines the prompt at Napowrimo.net ("something magical and strange that happens at night, and could be a dream, but feels lifelike") and the one at Poets & Storytellers United ("something about desserts, or just desserts"). The dream is one I really had. The rest of the story also happened, but later.

In a dream I held out a plate to take
A slice of the very most fanciful cake
Ever. Little beads of sugar ran round and round,
Colored or gilt. The top was a mound
Of icing and candies. "Vanilla?" I said,
Taking a bite. "Why--it's just cold cornbread!"

I went to the kitchen, and there I made
A salad of fresh fruit in circles arrayed:
Green grapes and tangerine, strawberry slices,
June apple, banana, and raspberries; spices
Not needed, just a few squeezes of lemon
And sprinkle of sugar to please all the women

Expected for luncheon. And please them it did.
It pleased my palate, too. Only one dear old kid
Wanted no fruit but cookies just out of a box.
This was good; it left just enough. Fruit salad rocks.
None of it was left over. I thought I could eat
The whole thing by myself, but I'm glad, now, they beat

Me to that salad's finish. Some food treats are best
Enjoyed when there's just enough for all the rest
And those six perfect bites give delight that's unique,
Not compared with the leftovers eaten all week.
That way memories of the best dessert you ever made
Stay piquant and perfect, and never do fade.


Photo from Google, where it's credited to Natasha's Kitchen. Google has dozens of photos of fruit salads that aren't mine...enough to inspire any cook, whatever may be in the kitchen. Any good fresh unsprayed fruits, alone or together, are likely to become a great, memorable summer dessert.

Book Review: El Principio de Dilbert

Book Title: El Principio de Dilbert

Original Title: The Dilbert Principle

Author: Scott Adams

Translator: J.M. Pomares

Publisher: Granica

Date: 1997 (Spanish), 1996 (English)

Length: 338 pages

Illustrations: cartoons by the author

ISBN: 8475777821

Quote: "Los trabajadores mas ineficientes son trasladados sistematicamente alli donde pueden causar menos dano: la direccion de la empresa."

In theory the Spanish edition ought to be reviewed in Spanish, as on Amazon it is, but out of respect to the Spanish language, as well as the English-speaking readers, I'm writing this blog in English. Readers whose first language is Spanish are, however, invited to advertise their translation skills by translating any blog posts they consider worth the trouble.

The Peter Principle stated that workers are promoted to their level of incompetence. The Dilbert Principle (in English) stated that incompetent workers are promoted to the place where they can do most harm: management.

The statement was made, of course, by what a Granica employee describes on Amazon as "the classic American story of an introvert engineer and his megalomaniac dog." (Actually, in the bizarre reality of the cartoon series, Dogbert does own the company; that's why the pointy-haired jerk can't fire Wally, Alice, and Dilbert.)

Beyond the middle-aged-boy-and-his-dog motif, the popularity of the Dilbert series comes from its interactive element: the cartoons illustrate complaints real office workers e-mailed to Scott Adams about real office policies and politics. The book isn't just a collection of cartoons, although most pages include one or more cartoons. The book also includes lots of e-mails, edited for brevity and privacy, but more or less in the correspondents' own words.

Drawings and e-mails are connected by Adams' philosophical reflections, which are as snarky and funny in Spanish as they were in English. All people are stupid--some times, about some things. This stupidity is a source of wealth for satirists. At the end of the book Adams does, however, offer the "F5 conceptual model" for businesses that want to minimize corporate stupidity; F5 stands for "fuera a las 5" (out of the office by 5 p.m.). Toward this goal, the first heading is "APARTARSE DEL CAMINO" (get out of the way--don't bother with policies that dictate conformity, and don't try to organize creativity). So what can the manager do? Fire jerks, teach efficiency by example, and try to ensure that everybody learns something every day.

Introverts have to love the Dilbert series...it shows how annoying the "people persons" (extroverts) some companies have tried to promote really are, to the people who are worth their salaries. For this reason alone, El Principio de Dilbert would be warmly recommended even if it weren't also (a) instructive and (b) hilarious.

Whether your first language is English or Spanish, this book is easy to read without continual reference to the other copy or to the dictionary. Business vocabulary words in both languages are almost identical...and reading this book bilingually is a painless way to learn them. Try to find a place where chortling won't distract others. This book might not be considered ideal for reading in an actual cubicle.

Web Log for 4.23.26

What's left of it. I've  been writing all day, making up for lost time. Checking the'Net at last at 6 p.m...Id and then the computer became fractious. Microsoft is not legally forbidden to annoy people by "rolling out updates" the minute the ideas cross their twitchy little micro-brains, then realizing that these "updates" contained errors and "rolling out" more interference with people's use of their own property until they think they've got it right. 

We need a law. Call it the Internet Triage Law:

1. "First-party input" comes from the owner(s) through the computer keyboard. It must always be obeyed instantly. If it's not what the owners wanted, that's the owners' problem.

2. "Second-party input" comes from sites specifically recognized by keyboard commands, but not their sponsor organizations, and must be allowed to transmit responses to the computer owners' messages. Second-party input would include web searches, forums, comments, posting to hosted blog sites, videos, etc.

3. "Third-party input" comes from anyone else, including the sponsor organizations of sites computer owners visit and interact with. (The specific Blogspot blog you visit would be a second party; Google would be a third party.) Third-party input is suspect because it comes from a third party and must never be allowed to interrupt computer owners' use of their computers. Ideally it would be held for 24 hours of automatic scanning by the FCC to identify anything that might compromise the use of a computer, such as spyware. No third party should be able to see anything we type that is not visible to the general public without producing verification of payment of a minimum of 10 cents per word seen or $5 per picture seen.

'The louder the Microgoons bray that that's impossible, the faster they need to be held accountable for getting it into effect. 

Environmental  

This would not be primarily Glyphosate Awareness. Glyphosate breaks down pretty fast in water. Some of its residues could be sucked up into clouds and redistributed as rain, but they would soon cease to be be glyphosate. Some other "pesticides" are more durable and might recirculate endlessly through nature's cleaning system...


Music 

(If nothing else, this section does show how many pages I visited and didn't feel a need to share...a music video, then a plain text link, alternating on and on.)

The Ventures.


The Lovin' Spoonful.


Steely Dan.


Gerry Rafferty.


Tom Petty



Seba Campos.


Led Zeppelin. I would not have listened, much less danced, to a recording like this when it was new. It took years of wear and tear to reduce my hearing to a level where I can enjoy it.


Kiss. Note that among baby-boomers this song is now good for rueful laughs about when and how we discovered the limits to our crazy teenage energy, but when the song was new even teenagers thought it was terrible because some people really did take drugs and give themselves serious brain damage...


Kids I knew would have been less hypersensitized to this one, although our parents wouldn't have been. Some of my schoolmates developed real drug addictions, but those of us who had had premarital sex and not become premature parents all said they could do without any more sex for a long while. 


Thelonius Monk.


Avishai Cohen.



REM. Much mentioned in Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs. Hoot! I thought the Weavers actually made it sound pretty good, but this version....


Peter, Paul, & Mary.


Wes Montgomery.


Toto.

Thursday, April 23, 2026

Napowrimo 23: Cardinals Return to Privet Hedge

Finally catching up with a National Poetry Writing Month Challenge prompt on the intended day...Today's prompt dared poets to write a villanelle that ends with a question.


(Photo from Google, which credits Gardening Know How: male and female cardinal in privet bush. Cardinals' sex roles are less strongly stereotyped than some birds'. Males are much more colorful and conspicuous, but females show some color when they want to. Males are much noisier, but both sexes sing, often in duets. They mate for life, and both parents rear the young.)

Cardinalis virginiensis, the Cardinal bird, lived in Virginia before privet (Ligustrum spp.) was introduced. But the birds became year-round residents rather than summer visitors as privet hedges became common. They are unmistakably attracted to privet berries, which most species, including humans, can't eat. Many cardinals still winter in Central America, where they eat other berries (and compete with farmers), but the birds continue to bring "cheer" and be "pretty birdies" in North America where their territory includes a privet bush that holds on to its berries until spring, or until cardinals eat them, whichever comes first. Privet does not actually spread much, nor is it difficult to control its spread from seeds and roots in your yard. What makes privet so invasive is that cardinals and a few other native birds and mice drop its seeds wherever they fly...and, where privet has spread, cardinals have followed. At one time naturalists actually used Richmondena as a name for the birds because Richmond was as far north as they would go. Now these fruit-loving, weather-tolerant birds live in New Brunswick.

Some people hate privet. They have no reason to hate it; the bushes are hardy enough to choke out some other plants but, if you'd rather have the other plants, all you have to do is cut the privet sprouts down close to the ground; the root may die right then and there, or it may oblige you by sending out another rhizome and sprouting somewhere else, and if that still doesn't suit you, you can cut those sprouts too. It's easy. Privet sprouts are slim little things you can cut with garden shears.  Privet trimmings are good for toasting marshmallows over a fire; they're too sappy to ignite while a marshmallow is toasting and thin enough to dry out and burn well after the marshmallow is cooked.

Some troll even expressed a wish that Mark Gelbart would breathe deeply of privet blossoms and choke on allergic reactions. This is just pathetic. Nobody's allergic to privet blossoms. They release an intense, sweet, delicious odor for a few evenings in May and do no harm whatsoever. People who have allergy reactions in May need to investigate the "pesticides" being sprayed on nearby gardens. Lots of people have allergy-type reactions to glyphosate. Almost everybody has some respiratory system reaction to dicamba. Some other "pesticides" are known to trigger really violent coughing and sneezing fits. But a person who sneezes while passing a privet hedge is a person whose allergies, probably to chemicals, have been aggravated to the point of being "allergic to" every kind of dust and pollen on Earth; such a person should try to find a place to stay indoors and recover.

Sadly, perhaps, privet has a lifespan. Although it does not attract insect predators and the few American animals who can eat it actually propagate it, privet is vulnerable to infection by fungi and nematodes. In a hundred years or so a stand of privet is likely to die out naturally. Cardinals and other songbirds will probably keep the species alive, but not in the same place...however useful privet may be in the places where it's been planted, to control soil erosion and build up soil that can support native plants.

I love my privet hedges because, during the fifty-one weeks of each year when privet is not bearing sweet-smelling white flowers, it "blooms" with cardinals. How can anyone not love a bird that bobs around the windows, in the dead of winter, singing "Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!" Brave flying flowers, that I could gallant it like you and be as little vain...

Brave birds who nest among privet's blossoms white,
Do you spread north because of heat's increase?
Do you count humans as a boon or blight?

When winter reminds us of our life's twilight
Your calls of "cheer" and "pretty birdy" please,
Brave birds who nest among privet's blossoms white.

Other birds, including chickens, like a bite 
Of privet berries dropped among plants and trees.
To you, are humans' chickens boon or blight?

I love the scent of privet's blossoms white
Mixed in with violets, roses, poplar trees,
Brave birds who spread the privet's blossoms white.

In summers when heat beats as if for spite
But no more than it's done for centuries,
We humans ask: have we been boon or blight

To this green planet where we seek the Light
For so few days before our sure demise.
Brave birds who nest among privet's blossoms white,
Do you count humans as a boon or blight?

Napowrimo 22: Self-Talk

For the twenty-second day of National Poetry Writing Month, the challenge was to write a poem in which a speaker is in dialogue with perself.

Self, how pedantic shall I be?
(Long past, on Linguist List, folks sought
The first use of "Self..." sophistry
In literature. I could have taught
Them: Dwain Reed, in a Nashville song
(Was it in 1971?),
Used "I said to myself, 'Self...'" Long
Before his time, most of his con-
Structions were used by simple folk
In the Blue Ridge Mountains. Should I go
Back to that post, at its end poke
Data--from twenty years ago?)
"Life is too short. The linguist who
Put up that post is long retired.
Address the question: who should sue,
Or who should call to have whom fired,
When Black students demand the 'right'
To write, speak, paint, and chant vile slurs
On all (even their own mothers) White
Americans..." The mind's eye blurs.
Whatever fun distractions be,
Life's far too short to be p.c.

Napowrimo 21: Names and Nicknames

This National Poetry Writing Month Challenge calls for poems about the names and nicknames of either the writers, or something in Nature.


Lymantria dispar is the Destructive Disparate moth. Females, almost but not quite as big as Leopard Moths, are built to lay eggs and die, usually in about the same place, within a few hours. Males are built to fly long distances in pursuit of females. When a male dispar finds a female who has not already mated, he doesn't seem to mind that she'd make two of him or that she had an extra week--or two!--to enjoy being a caterpillar. The photo above, from Butterflies and Moths of North America, shows a dispar couple.

Big as she is, my truelove encompasses
More protein than she's made of. When we mate
The froth we leave behind on the bark masses
More than the two of us together. Great
Amounts of air rush in, plump out each wall,
Leaving our babies ample room to grow.
We drop off of the spongy mass. You call
Us spongy moths, and so we are. Quite so.

Some used to call us Gypsies, like a tribe 
That spread northwest from India through Britain.
"A slur on Gypsy people," thinks the scribe?
Speak for yourself! On my behalf is written:
The nickname "dreaded Gyps" implies a scam;
We've made no deals with humans, Sir or Ma'am!

Napowrimo 20: White Swan

The National Poetry Writing Month Challenge invites participants to write a poem about an animal that is mentioned in myths and legends, that can be seen as a metaphor for some aspect of human life; and, also, to include a spoken phrase in the poem. (At Napowrimo.net there's an example of a free-verse "poem" in which a black swan is seen, unrealistically to say the least, as a metaphor for a perfectly normal man who feels embarrassed by going postsexual. Pooh!) 


Photo from Google, attributed to Wye Marsh Wildlife Centre. Swans of different species don't seem to crossbreed but they can form foster family groups. Mute Swans, which aren't endangered and are sometimes considered invasive nuisances in North America, have sometimes been induced to earn their keep in nature parks by rearing endangered Whooper and Trumpeter chicks (cygnets). As with humans, young adult swans often fly off with their own mates and never see their parents again, but swan foster families' loyalty seems to last as long as the young birds stay near their parents.

Fun fact: Mute and Trumpeter Swans have the same size range, but Trumpeters are more often at the larger end of the range. However, male swans (cobs) are usually bigger than females (pens), so Zeus, whose fatherly overprotectiveness earned him a sexless life with a foster daughter as a companion, was just noticeably bigger than his foster daughter.

These park swans' story can be read as a metaphor for several different things in human life. Meh. It is what it is. It's not a very cheerful story so depressive readers might want to read something else now.

The swan called Leda seems to like
The cob, her mate. When people hike
Around the lake, they always see 
At least one of them. The islet she
Chose for their nest is far away 
From all the other isles as may
Be found in this small lake. The swans
Swim blithely with their little ones,
One fore, one aft, around the lake. 
They seem to pose when visitors take
Their pictures. Both are gentle, tame;
Mindful of sandwich ends and fame
They waddle, awkward on the land
As graceful in the water; stand
Close up, and let their necks be stroked
While snorking crumbs till almost choked.
--At least, that's how they did behave,
Before the cygnets hatched. Now they've
Gone quite mad with protectiveness.
The ducks and geese think they're a mess
And shun the swans, who were their friends
Last winter. With hatching, friendship ends!
"Just go away!" they always hiss
At friends one might have thought they'd miss
All through those long days on the nest.
The swans know that they have been blest
With a large brood, if not their own,
And, proud as monarchs on a throne,
Methodically attempt to kill
All who might make the cygnets ill
By breath, effluvia, touch, or bearing
Parasites that, by microbe-sharing,
Could harm a cygnet. Leda's not
Too strong herself. She limps a lot.
The cob Zeus in majestic ire
Lowers his head if any nigh her.
A friendly gosling wants to play
With cygnets, as with ducks it may.
Zeus really wants to drown the baby,
And he'd drown us, too, don't mean maybe,
If we swam ten yards from his brood.
He is not mean. He is not rude.
He only wants to keep his charges
Safe from whatever carrier barges
In close beside them. But too late;
The toxins lurk in his own mate.

Next year on the same lake we see
Zeus swimming in swan-majesty
Beside the last unmated chick
His Leda reared, before being sick
And dying where the water grew
Unfit to host more than a few 
Of birds that overpopulated
The lake, the year they copulated.
He will not reproduce again
And, so, good-tempered he'll remain.