The Pottawattamie Beaver

In the sylvan sewers of Fritchy's tombie the Pottawattamie beavers play deep beneath the verdant pastures where dead skunks and possum lay Circling skyward glowing wierdly jackal-birds sharpen their nails those brainless fowl still don't get it Pottawattamie leave no trail The point, my friends, is whoever writes such utter trash compounds our misery Would that he fire up his rotisserie and fry the buzzards in sympathy Anon I hear supplicants, lost their compass again Pity that out-of-water, they won't get deap-sea bends