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Swamp Poem

   The Swampy Place

    

If you happen across The Swamp, my friend,
You’d better hope it’s not a dead end,
For there dwell the folks we’ve come to know,
They live where no one else will go.

 
 

Wart, the curse of mozzie and fly,
Out darts his tongue, and a swarm does die.
His little friend Mort, is not so fast,
In this feeding game, he’s far outclassed.

Wart, the curse of mozzie and fly,
Out darts his tongue, and a swarm does die.
His little friend Mort, is not so fast,
In this feeding game, he’s far outclassed.

 

 

The swarm is depleted; few survive,
‘Cause Wart’s tongue has gone into overdrive.
If he’s lucky, Mort might catch a few
Of the dwindled swarm’s residue.

The Nit Picking Bird has his time sorted out,
For Croc always has nits, of that there’s no doubt.
If old Croc had teeth, he’s rule the swamp,
Instead of gumming, he’d have an almighty CHOMP!
 
 

He’s had several thousand lessons to date,
But his trips and spills are still first rate.
Correspondence to his Dad is sent by Snail Mail,
Who delivers it all, through rain, snow and hale.

His partner, the Turtle, delivers mail too,
Though it takes forever, the mail must get through.
The Rats enjoy to surf the sludge pipe,
Not the av-er-age rat’s stereotype.

 
  There’s many birds who call Swamp their home,
Most of them seem to seldom roam.
Ding Duck sets his gaze in the sky,
And dreams of the day, when he too, can fly.

The Bludgerigar eats Tiddles for tea,
He’d best hope THAT cat wasn’t pedigree.
If on a tour of the Swamp you’d like to embark,
The best tour is Gary Clark.

 

This poem was composed by a Swamp fan called Lina Symons It is shown here with permission of the authour.

                                                                  Linda Symons  28 January, 2009