‘Twas rare that ordinary folk had e’er beheld the make
Of such a one that dwelt below the boulder by the lake.
But there it bided in the dank, the dark, and smelly rot,
And none could e’er have guessed what was the purpose of its lot.
Upon removal of the stone that covered up its bed,
It stirred and tried to run, but then, it reared its horrid head.
It brandished claws and might have gored whatever hand came near;
Its mandibles were set to snap, with power that could shear.
It raised its wings of em’rald hue, an awesome sight were they.
But lo! They faltered from its weight; it could not fly away.
For it had slept these many days, now having laid it eggs,
And now it scurried in the sun, on spiny, wobbly legs.
Somewhere, not far, it dug a hole, and there the batch was sprung;
And lovingly, that grubby brood was wrapped in healthy dung.
It urinated now to show its foulness could repel;
Perhaps the ones that moved the rock would recoil from the smell.
But they were not to be denied, now that they’d found the beast;
They watched in wonder unafraid, not flinching in the least.
No, they were titans of a kind that looked at things with awe,
And being children, they were charmed by everything they saw.
They did not kill the scary thing with dark and homely mug,
For, after all, they’d never seen a green and shiny bug.
They put the rock back in its place, without a hint of harm,
And on that sunny, summer day, they skipped back to the farm.