A fine mushroom
A fine mushroom
King Rupert the Gnome
In his green, woodsy home
Was the monarch of everything
He would survey

And in his largest room
Was a stately old shroom
That was regal as heck
All his people would say

So King Rupert the Gnome
Sat on his fungal throne
Holding court in the forest
Each beautiful day

Til his seat was recut
In the shape of his butt
But it looked just as fine
In a comfortable way


There’s a tale of a frog
who was sunning herself
on a river’s soft bank
in the woods.

She was humbly approached
by a scorpion lad.
“Lady frog!” hailed the one
with the sting.

“I’ve got business, my dear,
on the opposite shore.
Could you possibly
give me a lift?”

So the affable frog
(who was kind to a fault)
said, “Hop on, little friend,
let’s be off!”

The arachnid complied,
and the innocent frog
set off swimming toward
the far bank.

As they reached the midpoint
up went scorpion’s sting,
and then down again,
into the froggy.

“Why, oh why did you sting?”
wept and wailed the poor frog
“Now we’ll both surely die!
Why’d you do it?”

“There was no way that I
could inhibit myself!”
said the scorpion boy.
“It’s my nature!”

Now, this story is told
to advise on the essence
of humans.

And yet, rare is the man
who is scorpion-born.
Rather, men must be taught
to betray.

The Best Laid Plans

Pounder McGurrell was a very fine squirrel,
and he hoarded his nuts with a miserly zeal
in the stump by the dump
and the hole near the pole.
He had no fear of missing a meal.

Pounder McGurrell was a very fat squirrel,
and by any squirrel’s measure as rich as a king.
He would crash on his stash,
snooze and snore, dream of more!
And he wasn’t afraid of a thing.

Pounder McGurrell was a satisfied squirrel,
with a pride-swollen heart in his oversized breast,
but he woke with a croak
to sustained, pounding rain.
The typhoon liquidated his rest.

Now Pounder McGurrell is a dog-paddling squirrel,
as he watches his nuts float away.

And that’s all I’m going to say.

The Ballad of Bad Luck Joe (or) A Whale With Much to Bewail

Eels and seals, buddy Joe…oh, I think I might know
Yes, I think I might know why your tummy’s so sore
Oh for hairy Pete’s sake, good compadre, tough break
I’m afraid you just swallowed a human

What was that, cheerless chum? Yeah, well, where I come from
All the whales tell some tales about humanish folk
Maybe songs of hot doom when they come with harpoons
But a lot of the stories were comedy

And the one common thread that ran through all they said?
It’s that humans are smart, but they surely aren’t wise
They will make their bold plans to impress fellow man
Then they end up inside a whale’s belly

What does all of this mean for the one near your spleen?
Well, I wish I had sunnier news to convey
Here’s the positive part: he’ll most likely depart
But what damage will he leave behind?

Will he tickle your throat with an oar from his boat?
Or instead fill your head up with smoke from a fire?
Well, whatever he’ll do will be no good for you
That’s a thing that I sadly can promise

But the worst of the worst (if you don’t, in fact, burst)
Will be all of the garbage that he leaves behind
And for weeks, Joe, your breath will smell awful as death
Because men are smart, foolish…and dirty

A Vigil Song

Well the horse, she escaped nigh twenty days ago
But we’re told she’s been seen in these parts, and so
Now the bulldog and me, we are setting up a camp
With some apples as lures, a coil of rope, and a lamp

And we wait, and we wait, and we wait
For the coming of the horse

Saw a rustle in the bushes maybe half an hour past
Was a doe (turned out) and golly, she was going fast
‘Part from that it’s been nothing but squirrels and birds
Though the dog barked once at some noise that he heard

And we wait, and we wait, and we wait
For the coming of the horse

Then as sudden as a thunderclap the horse charged up
And she froze stock still on seeing me and the pup
I approached her with an apple held out in my left hand
She spied the rope in my right, spun and ran to beat the band

And we wait, and we wait, and we wait
For the coming of the horse

The Lofty Wishes of Lofty Fishes

When the Prodigal Cod had delusions of grandeur
This failed to astonish the sea creature girls
Who had seen their pal Cod try to conquer the oysters
Intending to give all his lady friends pearls

And the least in surprise (though in mass the most splendid):
The Prodigal’s closest of chums, Jenny Whale
Who was blue by descent, but in temperament sunny
Watched wryly as Cod began building his sail

With this wing, shouted Cod, I shall leave this wet prison
And fly through the air with the greatest of ease!
My dear friend, Jenny whispered, you already jump
And besides, you’re a fish. Tell me, how would you breathe?

When the Cod’s work was done and the time came to test it
The Whale soon admitted: how wrong could she be?
As the Prodigal soared every day through the sky
(In the part of the sky very close to the sea)