There once was a frog on a log,
Who eyed a small dance-involved fog,
He jumped in with glee,
Then hiccuped, "Oh gee!"
Now the log's just a prop in the bog,
As the frog croaks a tune in the smog,
With a bemused choir,
Of insects that admire,
The spectacle high-fives a frog,
While nature smiles, clearing the clog.
My friend's sneeze could launch ships to seas,
With a gust that could strip all the leaves,
The trees shook with fright,
In the pale moonlit night,
It sailed past the bees and the peas,
Causing sniffles and wheezes to cease,
"Bless you!" we'd chant,
In a unified rant,
And the breeze brought a sniffle's release,
As calmness restored in one piece.
I've a drawer of socks, none that match,
Lost their partners; there's always a catch,
I feel like a clown,
With one green, one brown,
My feet throw a mismatched sock bash,
Each pair looks like a colorful clash,
But this funky array,
Makes my wardrobe less gray,
Now my toes dance a jubilant mash,
In a spectacle bold and abash.
A cat found a hat in a bin,
It was red and matched well with her skin,
She pranced on the mat,
Like an aristocrat,
The dog barked, its head in a spin,
At the sight which made its eyes pin,
"Mew fancy," it said,
With a shake of its head,
The cat just gave a smug grin,
"Fashion wins!" cried she, with a wink.
A duck took a dive into wine,
Said it made his feathers feel fine,
With a slurp and a burp,
He did a small chirp,
"This pond's more divine than the Rhine!"
He paddled with technique so prime,
Splashing grapes in a squishy clime,
Earning applause overtime,
The moral, in this feathery mime?
"In vino, verquack" was his line.
There was a young bear with such flair,
Every cave he’d enter with a glare,
In the woods, quite the sight,
With his scarf wrapped just right,
He’d stride with a confident air,
Not a single beast daring to stare,
With a snort, he'd proceed,
To indulge in his honeyed greed,
All bears elsewhere would never compare,
To his style, not even on a dare.
The wind one day played a mean trick,
Making the town's clock tick and stick,
Hours passed, not a sound,
As the hands spun around,
It teased hats off heads mighty quick,
Left hairstyles in states lunatic,
We chased our own toupees,
Through the town's windy maze,
Such pranks by the weather's slick schtick,
Turned us all into slapstick's sidekick.
Met a mime who was clearly not there,
He moved silent air with such care,
Gestures floating, unseen,
In an act so serene,
The crowd watched with an intent stare,
Laughing at the void with flair,
Yet, his talent was rare,
His box squeezed from the square,
He bowed to an empty chair,
And vanished into thin air.
A lad sold lemonade with zest,
Claiming his was absolutely the best,
Yet with a twist of fate,
He’d added salt, by mistake,
The faces puckered in their quest,
To quench a thirst, they did attest,
Now sales are up you see,
For his salty-sweet recipe,
What a surprising taste test fest,
Making lemonade that’s uniquely dressed.
There’s a hare with glasses so round,
A hipster known far across the ground,
He hops to indie beats,
Wearing carrot-themed cleats,
He sips herbal tea most profound,
His burrow, a vintage mound,
With vinyl records that surround,
His taste, critics find quite sound,
But when sprinting to flee a greyhound,
His cool can't outpace the pound!