The Picnic Affair
In a glen where the mushrooms glow soft blue,
Lived a critter who loved to change his view.
A pooka by name, with a golden eye,
He’d start as a hare, and then—why not?—fly!
Poof! went the tail as it turned to a feather,
Changing his suit to suit the weather.
“Too sunny for fur!” he chirped with a grin,
And turned to a dolphin to jump right in—
Wait, that was a pond, just a small muddy puddle,
So he turned into a frog on a sunny-day muddle.
He popped out of the mud as a bright orange fox,
Then turned to a moss-covered, sleeping grey rock.
He tickled the badger, he startled the deer,
Whispering jokes in their unsuspecting ear.
Then off he went dancing, a shaggy old hound,
Before shifting back to his own silly sound.
With a mischievous giggle and a spark in his eye,
He’ll be something new when the moon hits the sky.
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