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Five pictures of stoats from the wirrel
The wirrel, thought I, was a wonderful place
A thing I had dreamt of, in childhood days.
Loitering around though, I find something else
Covered on top by a fine woven felt.
A minor, it seemed, from an ignited womb
Was buried beneath in a charcoal made tomb
And clutched in its hands was a letter it wrote,
A feather tipped pen and photos of stoats.
A picture of foxes, of weasels, of mice
But the ones of stoats were the thieves of my eye.
One with a rod, and a hat and a cape
And some were more sinister; I see murder and rape.
I threw the stack down, from whence they did come
Into the casket, the coffin, the tomb.
And now every time I do visit the woods
I lend a small tear to the baby and stoats.
The wirrel, thought I, was a wonderful place
A thing I had dreamt of, in childhood days.
Loitering around though, I find something else
Covered on top by a fine woven felt.
A minor, it seemed, from an ignited womb
Was buried beneath in a charcoal made tomb
And clutched in its hands was a letter it wrote,
A feather tipped pen and photos of stoats.
A picture of foxes, of weasels, of mice
But the ones of stoats were the thieves of my eye.
One with a rod, and a hat and a cape
And some were more sinister; I see murder and rape.
I threw the stack down, from whence they did come
Into the casket, the coffin, the tomb.
And now every time I do visit the woods
I lend a small tear to the baby and stoats.
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Five pictures of stoats from the wirrel
The wirrel, thought I, was a wonderful place
A thing I had dreamt of, in childhood days.
Loitering around though, I find something else
Covered on top by a fine woven felt.
A minor, it seemed, from an ignited womb
Was buried beneath in a charcoal made tomb
And clutched in its hands was a letter it wrote,
A feather tipped pen and photos of stoats.
A picture of foxes, of weasels, of mice
But the ones of stoats were the thieves of my eye.
One with a rod, and a hat and a cape
And some were more sinister; I see murder and rape.
I threw the stack down, from whence they did come
Into the casket, the coffin, the tomb.
And now every time I do visit the woods
I lend a small tear to the baby and stoats.
The wirrel, thought I, was a wonderful place
A thing I had dreamt of, in childhood days.
Loitering around though, I find something else
Covered on top by a fine woven felt.
A minor, it seemed, from an ignited womb
Was buried beneath in a charcoal made tomb
And clutched in its hands was a letter it wrote,
A feather tipped pen and photos of stoats.
A picture of foxes, of weasels, of mice
But the ones of stoats were the thieves of my eye.
One with a rod, and a hat and a cape
And some were more sinister; I see murder and rape.
I threw the stack down, from whence they did come
Into the casket, the coffin, the tomb.
And now every time I do visit the woods
I lend a small tear to the baby and stoats.
Hey, you promised me stoats!
You got your god-damn stoats, and you got a dead baby. Isn't this enough?
A weasal, minx, ermine, polecat, or even a ferret would have been nice. A Badger fighting four belligerant hedgehogs, even better.
Even a shrew would have done.
I had a conversation with a trio of stoats once: we discussed the sprint-paths of spooked rabbits and the whereabouts of hidden badger dens.
What is a wirrel.
Where is wirrel?
Very good.
Meh. I no more comment.
Meh. I no more comment.
monkey_man wrote:
> Even a shrew would have done.
I watched a Shakespeare play called the Taming of the Shrew and it was about 45 hours long. I thought it would be an endearing tail of a man befriending a little mouse only to find that, in an act of stunning betrayal, the mouse is in fact a Shrew. And it's not even tame!
However this was not the case and I left the theatre vowing never to watch anything interlektual again.
And there were no guns either.
Or popcorn.
> Even a shrew would have done.
I watched a Shakespeare play called the Taming of the Shrew and it was about 45 hours long. I thought it would be an endearing tail of a man befriending a little mouse only to find that, in an act of stunning betrayal, the mouse is in fact a Shrew. And it's not even tame!
However this was not the case and I left the theatre vowing never to watch anything interlektual again.
And there were no guns either.
Or popcorn.
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