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Quill the Quail

I once heard the tale of Quill the quail
Whose first found friend was a hole-filled pail
Quill thought strange of his friend’s pocked face
So he plugged the holes to remove the trace
‘Til Farmer John picked up that rust pot
To quench the thirst of plants that felt hot
But John learned quick to his own disdain
That he poured out air and had worked in vain
First once then twice old John had thought
That the drink the pail had simply not caught
Until at Quill he took a long look
Quill’s face betrayed the blame that Quill took
His wings Quill flapped, but his flight would fail
And that was the end of Quill the quail.

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