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
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