Red Winged Black Bird on a fence post in a field.

Bernie the Bhoozle Kicks the Can


Category: poetry
One winter day
In the land of Quazooz
When snow was at play
And the trees were asnooze
What should there be
Lain out on the strand
But one of the natural
Folks of this land.
A Bhoozle it was,
This one called Bernie,
Who had an accident
On his daily journey
And now his journey
Had been put on hold
For this little Bhoozle's
Tragedy to unfold.
It seems that he walked
Not watching the ground
And took a bad fall
When a hole his foot found
Broken his leg
And his good arm, to boot
And a few other injuries
Though they were all moot
Because the most serious
Injury of all
Was when his neck snapped
At the end of his fall.
So, Bernie's day
Would end with him dying
Simpering, whimpering
Sniffing and crying
With muscle spasms
Jiggling his limbs
And loss of control
Took dignity from him
Pitiful expressions
Both lost and forlorn
This little Bhoozle's
Life had been shorn.
And with one last shutter
And with one last sigh
His eyelids fluttered
Then Bernie died.

Now the loss of one Bhoozle
Is hardly a crime
For new Bhoozles happen
To be born all the time
But on a personal level
From Bernie's point of view
The days of a Bhoozle
Are notably few
But he's not a total loss
Where the world is concerned
When the weather gets warmer
He'll be home to the worms.

Comments (3)
You gotta pick the right guy to do the job.
Go out now and vote for LibertyBob.
Evil has a new name. It's Mumumumumumu.