Sipping Chilled Rosé

The wolverine dreams of ripe tangerines  
in the mouth of a plump pink flamingo,  
unconcerned by the sharp flamingo screams  
as round, roasting, round on the spit she goes...  
   
He had wondered why it was named a spit  
till he got too close to the spitting fire,  
the burning feathers bothered not one whit  
now he was nearing his hearts desire...  
   
A meal of a fruited, roasted, game bird  
sauced by the decreasing screams down to whine,  
quieting now till all that can be heard  
is the wolverine stropping his claws, to dine...  
   
" She'll make a fine banquet will that Rosie "  
Thought the wolverine sipping chilled, Rosé