The Potters Tale
A potter went down to the edge of the water
To ask of an otter a gift for his daughter.
Go ask the weasel; he paints at his easel.
His fees will be low; his currency’s diesel.
He didn’t have diesel; he took him some gas.
The weasel: offended; the convo was fast.
You’d best see the heron, but take him a fork;
He’s worn out his beak from eating pulled pork.
He found heron singing, but way out of tune.
Old heron laughed, “Pork? Not anytime soon!
I’m trying to spoon with my lady the stork,
But she says my croon needs a G tuning fork.”
You might see the beaver: a bit of a weaver.
Builds dams with sticks; that’s if you believe her.
So off trod the potter and down to the dam.
He knocked on the door; she called, “Here I am!”
He explained what he needed; she shook her head, “Nay,
For I fear that the dam’s sprung a big leak today,
Unless, by some chance, you have got some spare clay?”
Well, they rolled up their sleeves, and they both went to work;
That potter threw clay, beaver’s tail went berserk.
They tidied all up, and they sat down for tea,
And the potter said, “Why are you laughing at me?”
Cuz you’ve got mad skills, throw your daughter a pot.
Put on a nice glaze and she’ll love it a lot.
So the potter went home, and well, you know the rest:
With style and panache, he threw her his best.
And then he surprised her at dinner that night;
She squealed, and she kissed him and hugged him real tight.
I didn’t know what to get, if you’d like it or not.
After all, it’s just clay fashioned into a pot.
Oh, daddy, you’re silly; it’s not about the clay,
But the love you poured in when you made it today.
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H/T to Terry Flood’s Zoo-nado; sometimes, nonsense makes the most sense
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