Song of The Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth No 9: ABBA

It's back to the wilds, for the unexplored Panama's island, Pygmy Three-Toed Sloths. Tree huggers, twenty hours daily, course, lots of trees. Four of a kind, their fifth, record as the smallest. Clocked slow, a leaf lasts one month in its tummies till its slow slop drops. They're six pounds and twenty inches, a pop. Furs algae-fied hide them. Swim can be done. Again, it resurfaces, a world-wide dilemma, in pictures and portrait drapes over a posh hotel table of crepes. Concerned and unconcerned, great the divide. In twenty-twelve, I.U.C.N., counted ... less than eighty, now ... they're, unaccounted.