Beavers

It's one of the first poems i wrote.... it's a stupid little thing about beavers


The beaver is a busy thing,
He works hard every day,
Of waterways he is the king,
He has no time for play.

Each night he curls in fluffy ball,
He hides away his tail,
While the owl screams his eerie call,
He's dreaming of a whale.

The beaver builds his massive dam,
He stops the waters flowing,
Amongst the flailing reeds he swam,
His little legs keep going.

A long flat tail, brown as can be,
It helps him swim so fast,
Big yellow teeth can fell a tree,
His skills, they are so vast.

He works so hard to stay alive,
But men just want to kill,
If left alone he'll surely thrive,
Now i don't believe he will

thats a rather sweet poem.

I like it.

meh, beavers. my mum, you know, the bloody wannabe vicar one, she is starting a new beaver group. as in the kind that children go to. so if anyone is a boy or a girl (it's gonna be mixed) and is aged between 6 and 8 years of age, and is localish.....feel free to come along......meh, no, didn't think you would want to.......