The Smyte

High from up in the tangledy tree,

You’ll hear the cry of the Smyte,

You never will see him; he’ll never come down,

From that dizzying, harrowing height.

 

Some say he’s a leopard with razor sharp teeth,

Some say he’s a tiny fierce bear,

And others; a monkey with stickery hands,

Who climbed up the tree and stuck there.

 

With a hoot and a whistle, he’ll rustle and leap,

From branch to tangledy branch,

And sometimes whole people will just disappear,

If they chance on the Smyte before lunch.

 

He’s quick, this leopard, or monkey, or bear,

This parrot, or three legged cat,

If you hear its high shout, you’d better look out,

Or all will be left is your hat.

This entry was posted by mariepeach on Monday, July 2nd, 2012 at 4:19 pm and is filed under poems . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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