I was chillin’ at Leonard’s, waitin’ on dough, fried and filled,

When a man waddled up like a fever dream distilled.

Three hundred pounds of wisdom, beads of polished Koa,

Muumuu flappin’ in the breeze as he walked from his Tacoma.

He said, “The path’s not paved—it’s felt beneath your feet.

Truth’s a quiet drum, not a sermon or a tweet.”

He popped an island fritter, powdered sweet with grace,

Then vanished in the mist like he’d never had a face.

Odd Duck number one, left me staring into space.

Odd ducks, flappin’ through a world that’s schematic,

Weird little lives, but the rhythm’s automatic.

Feathers all ruffled, but the flight’s still magic—

Live loud, live weird, let your soul be erratic.

(Quack-quack, baby, I’m an odd duck too…)

There was this prof in college, beard like a wizard,

Said, “Return your books—I wrote ’em pre-cancer, they’ve withered.”

Tenured and terminal, McGriddle in hand,

Taught sociology like jazz—no rules, no plan.

Two kids to feed, still cracked sexist jokes,

Dropped old Carolina truths between coughs and smokes.

Every class, same sandwich, same seat,

Truth bombs with syrup made the chaos feel complete.

He reminded me of Leonard’s guy, just less tropical,

Still odd, still duck, still wholly philosophical.

And maybe he wasn’t noble—but nostalgia’s got tricks,

Slicks memory in laughter and fries it till it sticks.

Odd ducks, flappin’ through a world that’s schematic,

Weird little lives, but the rhythm’s automatic.

Feathers all ruffled, but the flight’s still magic—

Live loud, live weird, let your soul be erratic.

(Quack-quack, baby, I’m an odd duck too…)

I met a man from Kuwait, dripping style like estate,

Medusa on his feet, spouting futures as he ate.

Peacock robe, MMA stats, NFL trades,

Talked like a monk who moonlights in financial raids.

Quotin’ Seneca like sermons, chai tea in hand,

Raved ’bout Prague nights and the markets in Milan.

Tried to read me like yield curves, thought I had clout,

Switching tones for the crowd, casting intellect about.

Saw him hours later—thobe crisp, entourage tight,

Bathhouse chameleon now cloaked in birthright.

Gone was the Milan talk and Medusa heat,

Odd Duck number three—still master of mystique.

Met a man from Guyana, spine carved from stone,

Fifty-seven, sharp-suited, still muscle to the bone.

Used to ghost into danger, now he mentors the ranks,

Compliance by day, but you feel the field in his flanks.

Didn’t need a sermon—he studied belief for command,

Could quote Proverbs or Plato, depending on the man.

Now he “works” at a bank, calls it fun with a shrug,

But compliance ain't combat—just paper in a mug.

Led with silence, gave orders like truths well-made,

Odd Duck number four, where respect doesn’t fade.

And then there’s my brother—not by blood but by flame,

Car crash rewired his mind, turned setback into game.

They called him “retard,” I got “gay” behind my back,

We were easy targets—till we learned to counterattack.

Now he builds networks by day, cloak on at night,

Game face on, mind sharp, ready for the fight.

Kindness deck stacked with traps if you test it,

Hits like thunder, but never where I’m rested.

Still drives his Kia like it’s built for kings,

Buys burgers like joy lives in simple things.

We walk into rooms—quiet, strange, loaded with grace,

Money deep, love deeper, no mask on his face.

Odd Duck number five, living truth at his pace.

Odd ducks, flappin’ through a world that’s schematic,

Weird little lives, but the rhythm’s automatic.

Feathers all ruffled, but the flight’s still magic—

Live loud, live weird, let your soul be erratic.

(Quack-quack, baby, I’m an odd duck too…)

Maybe I met ‘em.

Maybe I dreamed ‘em.

But they all felt real…

And maybe that’s the point.

Odd ducks don’t need to make sense.

They just need to fly.