I once chanced upon a small turtoise in a field
she was crying, you know; all in sniffles
so i offered her my handkerchief.
Accepting it, and wiping her tears, she began
to tell me her story
she said
Is it that you say of me?
The rabbit or the hare
And would that speak of heresy
Though tortoise shell I bear?
And what of love, intimacy?
Have your locks grown old?
Would you not partake in me?
'Ere Briar Patches rose?
After hearing her dreadful story
she offered me a leaf of lettuce and a quill.
taken aback I enquired "why this quill?"
she said
"for I am a tortoise
and as all tortoise go
though we speak with emotion
our hands write so slow!"
she won me over by this couplet
for I knew it to be true
and while in saddened state of mind
I began to write verse two...
For of the Fox, he holds his glee
In simple melodies
If you could sing these songs of woe
For tortoise, hare, and me
And what of love, intimacy?
Have your locks grown old?
Would you not partake in me?
'Ere Briar Patches rose?