I couldn't post
 

it said BANNED POST repeated over several lines

??

But I revised post #27

Good morning Fliss,

Or alternatively, good afternoon. I liked this and found it made me happy. So thanks! Am I wrong to hear a little Edward Lear in it?

Also, good to hear that West Country burr again. My sister worked for some years in the Bristol Housing Authority, where she told me one client liked some options and said "Tickee they."

Regards,
John

🍓🍓🍓

mignon, I don't know what happened there, but I've copied and pasted your #27:

revision:
Parallels

flee to the woods
and bark the trees
with the tongue—what
better dagger
than one which wags
—a fountain pen
poking points with
perseverance—
woodpecker drilling
to find hollows
—nothing—to make
something and paint
oneself silly
little animal
lost in the forest

~ml
June 22, 2021


Parallels

I flee to the woods
and bark the trees
with my tongue

what better dagger
than one which wags

or a fountain pen
poking points
with perseverance

woodpecker drilling
to find hollows
—nothing

to make something
and paint myself silly

little animal
lost in the forest

~ml
May 19, 2009

I like what you've done with the poem. It feels like a portrait, insofar as it's condensed into one space, and I still love the woodpecker and the silly little animal :-)

- - -
Good evening, John. Yes, it's a happy piece, written to relieve the stress of homebuying about three years ago.


As John mentioned Lear, I'm posting my Jumblies piece. The silly Scilly party met the Jumblies on St Martin's, which is one of the islands. There's a few interesting things about the island on Wikipedia, including a photo of the splendid daymark :-)


When Coo & Co met the Jumblies

So the party sailed northwards to St Martin's Isle,
00dropping anchor at Bread & Cheese Cove,
before journeying upwards with soup, super-style,
00and a mini yet mighty gas stove.

'We are bound for the daymark, FT,' Coo explained,
00'it resembles a tinned pencil tip
and its radiant red-and-white stripes are maintained
00to assist every barque, boat, and ship.'

'Yay, the daymark!' the St Mary's mossops gave cheer;
00'It is certainly bright,' smiled FT.
'Yes, indeed; and behold, we have strong soup-and-beer,'
00added Coo, 'to heat up presently.'

But as everyone neared the said red-and-white stripes,
00they perceived other colours as well –
there were greens, there were blues, of quite jubilant types,
00a fine blend with the Scilly-sea swell.

As the party drew closer, the colours took shape
00and the greens became well-rounded heads,
then the blues became hands, holding joy-juice of grape
00and some cheese and a few brown-rye breads.

'Who be these?' asked the mossops, their eyes all a-glow;
00'These be Jumblies,' Coo whispered reply –
'I had thought that their wanderings ceased long ago;
00here they are, though, most spruce and most spry!'

'Greetings, Jumblies!' Coo curtseyed, and held out a wing,
00'We are honoured to meet you this day.
I am Coo, these are mossops, and this flissty thing
00is FT.' And the mossops sang, 'Yay!'

All the Jumblies came prancing in pink-paper shoes
00they had fastened well down with a pin,
and shook hands, wings. 'Such pleasure to meet all of yous!'
00they all chorused, with greenial grin.

'Are you travelling again?' asked FT. 'That we are!'
00they responded, 'wherever we turn,
in our swift-circling sieve and our crockery jar,
00and through waters both peaceful and stern.'

'That is fun!' Coo decided. 'And what of your jaunt?'
00Jumblies asked. 'It is Scilly throughout,'
Coo informed, 'seeing many an historic haunt,
00sometimes witnessing ruin and rout.'

'Let's sit shadily down by the daymark, fond friends,'
00said the Jumblies, 'and make a long lunch,
and our wanderings never shall come to their ends
00while there's bread, cheese, and soup fit to crunch.'

So all ate, drank, and merried, and grew very tall,
00parting company just after five,
for the Jumblies to re-visit St Martin's mall
00to buy plums and a seal who could jive.

🍞🧀🥣

I have to take a break from this thread now, as I'm a bit busy updating my portfolio in between working long hours below minimum wage. Do carry on in our absence, though :-) :>)

Stuttering Critique of a Poem
 

It's still happening - BANNED word repeated amid the words I posted.

I have no idea what's going on.

Sorry about that, mignon. I don't know what's causing it :-/

Do you want to try PM-ing your post to me and I'll paste it into a new post here? I have to go to bed now (it's not far from 1am), but I'll be here tomorrow early evening most likely.

Soooo tired. Very odd night.

Best wishes,
Fliss

'Music, FT?'

Well, thank you, Word-Bird. Something cheerful, perhaps?

'On it!'

(^v^)

Hey, I like your jumblies poem. It's full of many lovely things, with engaging voyagers and interesting meetings.

Here's an image that isn't quite Learish enough to do the poem justice, and is riffing off Wallace Stevens (although you wouldn't think it to look at it) but it does contain a hoopoe in pink bloomers, which might just compensate:

http://sarah-janecrowson.com/wp-cont...4654413618.png

🍓🍓🍓

Thanks, Sarah-Jane; I liked writing this one, as you can probably tell :-)

Your image is excellent. I don't know much Lear or Wallace Stevens, but I am loving the hoopoe in pink bloomers, lol, and the purple tones. Do you have an accompanying poem? I'm imagining a conversation between the hoopoe and the horseman (sorry if he's something else!).

Best wishes,
Fliss & W.-B. :>)

🌞

Here's a sonnet in which I'm channelling the thoughts of sculptor Magdalena Jetelova. It's based on her piece on the Forest of Dean's sculpture trail, a giant's throne on a hillside, here; the whimsical elements of the sonnet are mine, of course <(:-)

Why do we humans bow to godly rule,
constructing grand designs to please a name,
esteeming faith as brandishing a tool
for planting every view within one frame?

Who knows what giants birthed throughout these hills:
the starbirds waltzing gaily in the trees,
those multicoloured fish of wailing gills,
the chanting herd that walked upon its knees?

If gods are borne in objects made by man,
then each of us may sculpt a making myth,
select our own creator, draw a plan,
enlist the skills of one good hammersmith.

Then fix upon a high commanding space,
and draw vast crowds to marvel at a place.

🍪🍪🍪

Biscuits? Why, thank you, Word-Bird :>)

An interesting time here. We are encouraged to expand our Scilly series. Here's a particularly foolish poem from the current collection:


Moonlit Monks, Abbey Garden, Tesco

The day was fading into dusk and soon the Moon arose –
the lilies loosed their night-time musk, quite pleasing to the nose;
the party – mossops, Coo, FT – had settled in their beds
aboard the ship, on Tresco quay, daft dreams within their heads.

But as the hour of midnight loomed, all woke to rhythmic beat
from where the musky lilies bloomed, and it had seven feet;
'What is it, FT?' asked dear Coo, but FT did not know –
the mossops also had no clue, yet head-jived to and fro.

'Well, let us make a stealthy search,' Coo chirped, and all agreed.
'Seek out a subtle sort of perch!' the mossops, keen, decreed;
in little time a perch was found upon a lofty arch
and through the Abbey Garden ground there came a hepta-march.

A company of monks was seen, black habits all rolled high –
yet not so much to be obscene unto the viewing eye;
they skipped along the garden paths, by trees of palms and flames,
alongside ornate birdal baths and plants of Latin names.

'Hi monks!' called Coo. 'Salvete!' one monk stopped to greet and grin;
FT observed, 'You're having fun, with all your cheery kin!'
''Tis true!' the mirthful monk replied. 'Our lives were rather strict;
amusing pastimes were denied by rule of Benedict!

'But now, upon this spirit plane, we're full of jaunty joy:
we hepta-march through Moon and rain and oft shout, "Ship ahoy!"
'Tis fun to shout,' the monk opined, 'especially to a ship!
Yet more than that, now unconfined, we really love to skip!'

With that, the monk rejoined his flock for seven-stepping thrills,
the moonshine on his ancient smock creating comely frills;
and all the party watched and smiled upon the charming sight –
the spirit monks, all super-styled, and skipping through the night.

🌴🌴🌴

This is the poem I mentioned to John Isbell. It required rather a lot of research, lol.


Dancers of Delphi

Herse
I am Herse; Athena once asked me to care
:>for young Erik, the great Gaia's child,
but I failed, I went mad, and I tore out my hair,
:>then I jumped to my death, wan and wild;
and I trance with my sisters in broken relief
:>to an unheard melodious mix,
on our podium decked with acanthusine leaf
:>in our new home, museum room six.

Aglauros
I'm Aglauros; I too took my life that bad day,
:>though some say that I died for my town,
in a sacrifice aimed to cast Ares away,
:>thus I climbed atop cliffs and dropped down;
and I trance with my sisters in broken relief
:>to an unheard melodious mix,
on our podium decked with acanthusine leaf
:>in our new home, museum room six.

Pandrosos
I'm Pandrosos; I perished not by my own hand,
:>for I didn't peer in Erik's box,
so I saw no slick snake, guarding, frighteningly grand,
:>since I did not pick Athena's locks;
and I trance with my sisters in broken relief
:>to an unheard melodious mix
on our podium decked with acanthusine leaf
:>in our new home, museum room six.

All
Once we danced for Apollo in Pythian form,
:>at his temple in Delphi, most high,
but being stared at by humans is now the grim norm
:>with three brothers, two headless, nearby;
and we all trance together in broken relief
:>to an unheard melodious mix
on our podium decked with acanthusine leaf
:>in our new home, museum room six.

- - -
🍦🍦🍦 <-- ice creams for anyone feeling as hot as I am!

Hi Fliss,

Lovely, and that stanza ending is superb! It reminds me a bit of Flanders and Swan, of whom I am exceedingly fond.

Cheers,
John

PS ta for the choc ice! It was scrumptious. :-)

.

(I, too, am confused about what does and doesn't meet the fresh test... But here goes!)

My freshness is in my grandchildren. Here's a nonsense rhyme I wrote for our three-year old on his birthday. (He thinks the word "underpants" is hilarious). For me, this is fresh:



THE UNDERPANTS SONG
To the tune "It's Raining, It's Pouring"

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
A little old man in his underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Two barking dogs in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who‘s there?
Three pink pigs in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Four swinging monkeys in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Five dizzy ducks in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Six pretty ponies in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Seven hungry hippos in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Eight angry birds in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Nine naughty cats in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Ten silly boys in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who’s there?
Eleven leprechauns in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who's there?
Twelve long-necked giraffes in their underwear!

Ding Dong!
Who's there?
It's only me and I'm in my underwear!

Da-de-ta-de-ta-da
Ta-de-ta-da-de-da!

Da-de-ta-de-ta-da
Ta-de-ta-da-de-da!


.

:)

John, thanks for reading; I like Flanders and Swan! And you're welcome for the choc ice. I'm not eating at the moment, but virtual snacking is okay, of course. It's cooler today, so Coo is offering cookies 🍪🍪🍪

Jim, that's great. You worry too much about things, I think. You're in D&A now, with the emphasis on A here, so just write what you like and see how it turns out. And this has turned out brilliantly. I can see it as a book, a page per verse, colourfully illustrated. My artist-friend Andre (from Italy) would love working with this. Naturally I'm rather drawn to the leprechauns, but it's all good <(:-)


Best wishes,
Fliss

And for our next trick, here is...


Guinea-pantoum

On sunny windy afternoons
in Spring, within the outdoor pen,
the guinea pigs are singing tunes;
run through a pipe, go round again.

In Spring, within the outdoor pen,
The Duchess (Dutch) and Truffle (brown)
run through a pipe, go round again,
climb on a box and jump back down.

The Duchess (Dutch) and Truffle (brown),
the twenty-fifth and -sixth of pets,
climb on a box and jump back down,
point twitching noses through the nets.

The twenty-fifth and -sixth of pets,
since March of 1983,
point twitching noses through the nets,
crunch carrots, squeak excitedly.

Since March of 1983,
the guinea pigs are singing tunes,
crunch carrots, squeak excitedly
on sunny windy afternoons.

🥕🥕🥕

Lovely. I will say, Fliss, that when I see guinea on its own, I half expect to read about guinea fowl and guinea hens. I am so used to hearing guinea pig as one three-syllable word. :-)

Anyway. What a splendid pantoum!

Cheers,
John

Fliss, I absolutely love that guinea pantoum. The progression of the rodents' various activities is delightful. And the rhymes and meter are right on, too.

.
A pantoum is a perfect platform to express the routines of guinea pigs! Really wonderful. Storybook-like.
.

Hi John, Martin, Jim,

Thanks for enjoying the pantoum!

Yes, John; I think a lot of people might go to fowl and hens rather than pigs, lol. But in the context of a little book of pet poems, with plenty of guinea-images, hopefully it'd be okay :-)

- - -
Thanks, Martin! Well, as you might imagine, I've had plenty of opportunities to observe guinea-behaviour over the years. Thanks for liking the rhymes and meter too :-)

- - -
Jim, I'm happy you like it too. I've written quite a lot of things about guineas, including 'The Secret Diary of Truffle Teague', in which Truffle has her babies. Super-sweet, lol.


Well, I've started to think about the bull-response (cf. John's poem on Met) and I'll probably start researching tomorrow :-)

Best wishes,
Fliss

Okay; well, work prevented any drafting with the bulls poem until today and here's something I've just completed in between insect tasks, lol.

John, I've merged our poems; I hope that's okay with you. Feel free to make any suggestions for improvement :-)


Ye have not danced

'Oh, but I have!' – Word-Bird ;>)


You straight-winged bulls with the blank heads of men,
you watchers at the gate in Khorsabad,
show me the way to Sargon. And the bulls
see all that nears, as if prepared to step
down from their plinth to ward off any evil.

Your royal line is gone, and you, preferred
to some bright room in Paris. But your dead –
are they now free? Is your long vigil through?
Shall I now bend the knee, remove each shoe?
The crowd mills by. And suddenly a bird
alights upon the head of one old bull
and then the second; both begin to speak:

'What's that? Remove each shoe? Well, if you must;
and bend at knee? Right-ho, then. We don't mind.
It's hard to care: our souls are cloaked in dust;
our eyes so dimmed, we might as well be blind.

'You'd better stand and put your shoes back on
if you're intent on going on a trip
to Trumpton, was it? No? Ah, King Sargon
and Khorsabad, it's that way. Off you skip!

'Hmm, wait. King Sargon's dead, his city razed;
our memories are dim and dusty too.
We stood so low and lowly and unpraised
for aeons, maybe, it might seem to you.

'We have a sense of movement to the place
where now we stand and watch through squinty eyes;
oh it is such a dull and chilly space
without our golden sands and cobalt skies.

'We are so tired of guarding nothing here
and wish some higher power would transport
our souls to somewhere far beyond this sphere
where we can guard for kings with joyous snort.'

Thus speak the bulls; and once again the bird
alights upon each head; then does a dance!
The bulls are silent then. say not a word
but only smile and smile, as if in trance.


Clay cast his net and fished. And every god
the Earth had seen – the living and the dead –
rose up as if on pillows through the sod.
They wandered up to fill Clay’s teeming head.

Thoth entered. In the silence, Dagon swam
up from the depths. Clay trembled, which was wise.
The looming gods are quick to anger, and
escape our minds – escape our peering eyes.
What is their thinking? Whim and bare command.
This was a problem. Clay was in a jam.

🐮 🐮

Fliss, the bulls are hilarious. I do hope that was the intended effect! The question is: who is to be master of light verse? And the answer is: one Ms. Felicity Teague, of course, with Word-Bird at her flank. You make the difficult seem effortless, and I feel sure that the bulls thank you. They might at last catch a break, as you intimate. I shall at once go and perform all their suggested actions, pretty much. :)

Cheers,
John

Thanks, John!

Yes, that was indeed the intended effect. You really are too kind about my light verse ability. As it happens, I do hear the bulls bellowing their thanks, to you as well as to me. The notes you provided helped me to focus on my writing and I wish you well with standing, putting on your shoes, and skipping to Khorsabad, lol.

Best wishes,
Fliss

Thanks, Fliss - skipping to Khorsabad could be time-consuming! Here however is a poem about going to Babylon. I hope you enjoy it!


Close as Candlelight

How many miles to Babylon? The sort
of question that bears asking – for the world
is very old and very large, when you
have not left childhood. As the vivid day
yields to the pillow, you could lend an ear
to such a question. You could brush your teeth,
put on pajamas. This is just the time
to ask how far is Babylon – for trips
the day forbids are made by night. You can
indeed get there by candlelight, though what
your errand there is, I can’t say. You might
visit the Queen; you might observe the sunset;
you might speak in Akkadian. There is
no telling what the night holds. And when dawn
pries you from slumber, you could tell your mum
or dad about your journey. You could dress
for school, have breakfast, start the day; but you
might think of how you traveled, of that Queen
you met, that language that you spoke. You might
remember Babylon, which is as close
as candlelight when all is said and done.


Cheers,
John
 

That's true, John, unless you had some special shoes, lol.

That's a lovely poem there. I have rather wonderful dreams of travelling, recorded in my Dreambook. One of my favourite copyediting projects was this one (Byzantium rather than Babylon, but that ties in with W.B.). Anyway, your poem leaves me with a warm relaxed feeling, much appreciated as a busy day draws to a close :-) :>)

Hi Fliss,

Lovely title as well - Oneirocritica indeed!

I'm glad you like the poem. Byzantium and Sailing to Byzantium I return to again and again as I work at my art, so I share your appreciation for what WB does there. It is breathtaking. Here's one: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...g-to-byzantium

Cheers,
John

Hi John,

Yes, great title. The funny thing about that book was that most of the interpretations were set out as, 'If you have a dream about [something], this is [positive/negative] for you.' But occasionally the author would omit the bit about the dream, e.g. 'If your ear falls off, this is bad for you.' 'It is indeedy,' observes Coo 8>)

Ace poem. And some amazing lines in 'Sailing', yes. We particularly like, 'An aged man is but a poultry thing' :>)

Cheers,
Fliss

However and nevertheless, do not eat aged men. I can’t stress this enough!

Cheers,
John

Thanks for the advice, John, lol. I'd like to mention that my chicken soup isn't actually made from real chicken and these days I'd be more inclined to pet poultry anyway <(:-)

'I am a pigeon fancier,' Coo confides, suddenly. Yes, Coo; thank you. 'Thank-coo' ;>)

I am glad to hear that no chickens are harmed in the making of your chicken soup, Fliss. Of course, I expect nothing less of you!

You might perhaps try mock turtle soup. Though tbh I’m not sure what is in it.

Cheers,
John

Mock Turtle soup is made of brains. It is therefore the bait of choice in zombie traps.

Hmm! Thanks Ann. That gives a whole new flavor to the Lewis Carroll song.

Cheers,
John

I used that song as a template for a poem in praise of Spam. It won a prize in The Spectator.

Very nice! The tone of it sounds perfect for a Spam poem as well. There should be more Spam poems. :)

Cheers,
John

Congratulations, Ann :-)

This pleases and comforts me; a cousin's little girl is called Alice, which rather builds the connection in my mind <(:-)

Beau-a-oo-a-oo-a-oo-a-oo-a-oo ... -tiful sou-a-oo-a-oo-a- ... -oup :-) :>)

It's just occurred to me that Freshtival might as well have a little tea tent, supplying a range of soups, teas, coffees, cakes, and other baked goods. 'Yay!' :>)

☕️🍰

And here is my poem about dear Sir K., composed on his 25th birthday and revised a little this pm:


Sir K. Birthday

The year was 1990 and the month was mildest May;
one Sunday afternoon I started sewing dear Sir K.
I didn't know his name at first, but I so loved his look,
as on the cover of the How To Make Your Koala book.

He came in lots of pieces – head and limbs, then front and back,
and ears, one side all fluffy, beady eyes, a nose of black;
I fetched a needle from my crafts-box, found my dark brown thread,
put on the new Top 40, and began to make his head.

An hour whizzed by – the task complete, I placed him on my fist;
much work to come, according to the long instructions list,
but at this point I paused and laughed and laughed for quite a while,
for somehow I had given him the most infectious smile.

I went downstairs; my mum was out, my brothers up the hill,
but Dad was in the garage, doing something with a drill;
I sneaked up with my koala-head, and 'Arrrgh!' went Mr T.,
then chuckled, 'Hmm! He's pretty good!’, which felt high praise to me.

Then, 'Teatime!', called my mum, and so I ran to show her too;
she laughed as well, said he looked nice, asked what was next to do.
I thought I'd try his front, a hexagon of whitest white,
although the bros said, 'Leave him as a head; he'll be alright!'

An intermission then occurred, a busy week at school,
but Saturday I fixed the front and made a koala-ghoul;
he chased the brothers round the house, till Dad said, 'Right, that's it!'
and sent us to our rooms, where I resumed the koala kit.

I sewed another hour or so, and all fell into place –
the koala now had body, limbs, as well as head and face;
I tiptoed down the stairs with him, found Mum at kitchen sink,
and showed my work; she laughed so much, her face became all pink!

And Dad was playing Joplin as we brought his slice of toast;
he looked relieved that there'd be no more games of 'Koala Ghost',
then improvised on 'Maple Leaf' and Sir K. danced and cheered;
it seemed a brand new age had dawned, and it was good and weird.

💗💗💗

Sir K. is now 31 years old, and just a few months older than Arthur Arthritis. He remains a family favourite and has helped me through quite a lot of health problems over the years :-)

Good afternoon, Fliss and Coo (and Sir K),

I do believe it is just after tea-time here in the Central Time Zone. I shall rush out now to have a hunt for Mrs I's teddy, who is blue, though a lighter blue than my PJs.

That said, let me be the first to welcome Sir K to our impromptu gathering! He is a charming fellow, quite clearly, and his infectious smile has already worked its magic: I am completely infected! Your cheery poem was the perfect way to make his acquaintance, and so I thank you for it.

Cheers to the three of you,
John

I greatly like your post #19 on the Interrobang, Ann.

Evening, John!

Any time is teatime at Freshtival, really. Inspired by Sarah-Jane's post on Insectageddon, I'm thinking all-day breakfasts and all sorts of little snacks too. Coo has a cookie for you 🍪

Have fun with Hunt the Teddy! Sir K is wearing a nifty little blue hoody at the moment, teemed with classic jeans. He looks very cool and thanks you for welcoming him to our gathering. There's an earlier photo of him here (you might recognise) and you're more than welcome for the poem.

Cheers to you,
Fliss, Sir K., Coo :>)

Alexander Bear

I have a wondrous teddy bear, of monumental size,
with a round, protruding abdomen and little piggy eyes
and half a pair of trousers, and people stop and stare
when I go out a-walking with Alexander Bear.
He has a little jersey with a zip that shuts and opens
that he's been wearing since the days when clothing was on coupons.
His stuffing’s fast congealing and his shape is somewhat crude
and when you tip him upside-down the noise is rather rude,
so I tip him up in buses and I tip him up in trains
and everybody thinks it's me, so nobody complains.
His fur is non-existent and he’s really old and smelly
but without him I would be like two of eels without the jelly.
Whenever we have visitors my mother gets superior,
apologising right and left for him and his bacteria.
She says he’s unhygienic and she says he isn’t clean
and she says I ought to dump him ’cos I don’t know where he’s been.
She calls that valid reason, but it simply isn’t true –
wherever Alexander’s been, then I have been there too.
So we’ve reached a sort of stalemate, if you fathom what I’m saying –
“he goes,” I say, “and I go too.” So both of us are staying.
.

Oh Ann. Thank you so much for posting this. It's a delight! Alexander Bear does indeed sound wondrous and I particularly like lines 7 and 8 ('crude' and 'rude', lol).

Dear John is taking some time away (I'm sure he won't mind my mentioning), but I'm hopeful he'll return with Mrs I's teddy in tow, whenever he feels ready to return.

In the meantime, here's one from my Metabear series. A metabear is a special teddy bear. Here, he is feeding the birds. 'Thank-coo!' :>)


Birdfeeding

When temperatures freeze
and frost grips the trees,
kind Metabear fears for his friends;
for though they have coats,
they sound mournful notes,
and so to their upkeep he tends, he tends;
and so to their upkeep he tends.

On rising each day,
he makes up a tray
of breakfast-time goodies to eat:
some nuts and some seeds,
to meet all birds' needs,
then fruitcake as special tea treat, tea treat;
then fruitcake as special tea treat.

The table is set!
Their appetites whet,
the feathery persons arrive;
with grateful glad zeal,
they peck at their meal,
and so through the winter survive, survive,
and so through the winter survive.

All puffed up and warm,
they start to perform,
a beautiful thanksgiving song:
'Praise be to the bear,
who shows us such care,
may his life be cherished ere long!, ere long!
May his life be cherished ere long!'

🐥🐥🐥