The origin of poetry
Was quite long ago
A wonderful story it is indeed
I think I'll let you know.
It all began when a little mouse
Who couldn't carry a tune
Decided to read words aloud
In a poetic form mind you.
He liked a little mousemaid
And wished to have her heart
A song he'd sing her, he thought to himself
To show his love was true.
So he went to the wise old abbot
And begged him to teach him a song
But the abbot was old, so his voice was no good
So sent the young one to a sister.
This sister, her name was Honeysuckle,
But everybeast called her Honey
For her voice was as smooth and sweet
Little dibbuns had tried to swipe it.
The young mouse knew better
Though he dearly wished he could have it
After sister Honey tried again and again
To train his unwieldy voice.
Unhappy, he sat in the dining hall
Ignoring his meager dinner
And who should sit down beside him
But his lovely little mousemaid.
Seeing the dreary look on his face
She asked him what was the matter
He offhandedly mentioned the singing contest
And how he wanted to enter it.
Hating to see him so sad,
She quickly excused herself
And went to the head table
And the brother in charge of the singing contest.
She entered him straight away
Then went back to tell him the news
He kept on a happy face
Refusing to hurt her feelings.
He went up to his room
And practiced as much as he could
Singing a song he had memorized
While all the brothers plugged their ears.
The day of the contest arrived,
And the young mouse made a decision
The words to the song were fine on their own
And much easier to ears all around.
He spent the rest of the day,
For the contest was in the evening,
Saying the words again and again
To find the way most pleasing.
He told the brother in charge
About the change in plans
The brother just smiled and bade him go on
So the others would be able to hear.
The little mouse bravely stood
Before the entire abbey
And said the words he remembered
To his surprised companions.
The beauty did not escape them
And many were close to tears
By the time he bowed and left
And they voiced their praises.
This is a new art, they declared
A song without a tune
And we shall call it poetry
For that sounds good and true.
The little mousemaid, as it turned out,
Had loved him all along
But had been shy to tell him,
Not wanting to risk a broken heart.
Soon after they were married
And had a little daughter
The name they gave her was Poetry
For that's how she had started.
And ever since that beautiful eve
The day the first poem was read
Poetry has been honored
A tradition followed by voices never meant to sing.
Both old beast and young,
Elder and dibbun,
Beasts of all shapes and sizes,
Enjoy the sound of poetry coming from one's heart.
Was quite long ago
A wonderful story it is indeed
I think I'll let you know.
It all began when a little mouse
Who couldn't carry a tune
Decided to read words aloud
In a poetic form mind you.
He liked a little mousemaid
And wished to have her heart
A song he'd sing her, he thought to himself
To show his love was true.
So he went to the wise old abbot
And begged him to teach him a song
But the abbot was old, so his voice was no good
So sent the young one to a sister.
This sister, her name was Honeysuckle,
But everybeast called her Honey
For her voice was as smooth and sweet
Little dibbuns had tried to swipe it.
The young mouse knew better
Though he dearly wished he could have it
After sister Honey tried again and again
To train his unwieldy voice.
Unhappy, he sat in the dining hall
Ignoring his meager dinner
And who should sit down beside him
But his lovely little mousemaid.
Seeing the dreary look on his face
She asked him what was the matter
He offhandedly mentioned the singing contest
And how he wanted to enter it.
Hating to see him so sad,
She quickly excused herself
And went to the head table
And the brother in charge of the singing contest.
She entered him straight away
Then went back to tell him the news
He kept on a happy face
Refusing to hurt her feelings.
He went up to his room
And practiced as much as he could
Singing a song he had memorized
While all the brothers plugged their ears.
The day of the contest arrived,
And the young mouse made a decision
The words to the song were fine on their own
And much easier to ears all around.
He spent the rest of the day,
For the contest was in the evening,
Saying the words again and again
To find the way most pleasing.
He told the brother in charge
About the change in plans
The brother just smiled and bade him go on
So the others would be able to hear.
The little mouse bravely stood
Before the entire abbey
And said the words he remembered
To his surprised companions.
The beauty did not escape them
And many were close to tears
By the time he bowed and left
And they voiced their praises.
This is a new art, they declared
A song without a tune
And we shall call it poetry
For that sounds good and true.
The little mousemaid, as it turned out,
Had loved him all along
But had been shy to tell him,
Not wanting to risk a broken heart.
Soon after they were married
And had a little daughter
The name they gave her was Poetry
For that's how she had started.
And ever since that beautiful eve
The day the first poem was read
Poetry has been honored
A tradition followed by voices never meant to sing.
Both old beast and young,
Elder and dibbun,
Beasts of all shapes and sizes,
Enjoy the sound of poetry coming from one's heart.