Notes About The Poem
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MARCH MADNESS, FUR SURE
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Mad Marge, a squirrel with a daring soul,
at the wheel, she always lost control.
Through the car wash, she did dash,
in her tiny, souped-up green Nash.
It's March! she cried with glee,
It’s top-down weather; I’m wild and free!
Huge bristly brushes whirled for all to see.
Oh, the foam and jets! My car looks like a Humvee!
Marge emerged clean, her fur a shining sight,
her green Nash, a dazzling delight.
She sped away, her fur nothing but a blur,
March madness, fur sure, fur sure!
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