BEASTLY TALES

THE SOBRIQUET

Marvin Moodswing ran into Marsden Hall,
Pelted by a wooden croquet ball.
He tripped on some croquet hoops,
Falling down, he did say oops!
He’d been playing croquet all day long,
But he’d done something very wrong.
To incur such retribution vile,
He was running; he’d run a mile.
His opponent hot on his trail,
Legs pumping, arms did flail.
He’d implied that croquet was a bore,
And he’d tampered with the croquet score.

Croquet’s not such a competitive game,
Some folk take it seriously, just the same.
So when Marvin spoke of it sneeringly,
He forfeited his right to act endearingly.
His opponent was chasing him with a croquet mallet,
Followed by his loyal personal valet,
His masters wrath he did incur,
When asking, “Will that be all, Sir?”
Bang! Marvin’s head resembled an artist’s pallet,
When finally sconed by a croquet mallet!
He lay on the croquet green,
Looking poorly, quite obscene.
He’d been croquetted from behind,
And he’d very nearly lost his mind.

Marvin Moodswing looked at his attacker,
Standing over him, with his valet backer,
“You’ve brought disrepute to a fine game,”
“A bounder, you are. Yes, that’s your name”
So Marvin became a “bounder!” His sobriquet,
For his lack of grace at playing croquet!