In the Glades of Marmalade a long long time ago
herds of wimpund browsed at ease, amidst the sun and snow.
Woomuds also ambled neath the shady pickle trees;
they had a double set of heads but lacked a set of knees.
Above them all the wumben strode; the queen of veldt and moor.
Her humps were fulsome and her head could shame a dollar store.
She strode among the daffodils and sniffed the sleeky air.
While butterbirds weaved mashed potatoes into her gleeky hair.
Then came the hunters, fierce and keen, to take her as a prize.
They dressed in poison ivy as their bibulous disguise.
The wumben saw them coming but ignored them patiently.
She was hanging crowbars on a blatant Christmas tree.
"Snish snash!" the hunters yelled, as calipers they hurled;
the wumben merely looked at them, her lips correctly curled.
She stepped upon them easily, until they were quite mute.
Then she raised her head up high and gave a questing hoot.
Now if you see a wumben and believe you can deceive
her into traps and pitfalls, you will soon begin to grieve --
for wumbens wear the smarty pants that give them great foresight
and there has never been a man to give them pause or fright!
(But if you treat them kindly they will let you fly a kite.)
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