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BRUCE DAY SPECIAL
A Snow Bruce Sonnet
Hidden in the mountains,
Deep in the ice and snow,
Lies a friendly little creature
That most of you will know!
He's as white as his surroundings,
He's made of the environment, too!
With his soft, powdery body,
And his scarf of sweet, sky blue.
His eyes are dark as coals...
Oh wait, that's what they are!
I guess he took that simile
A little bit too far!
All day long he frolics
And plays without a care,
Not noticing how very cold
The weather is up there!
For Terror Mountain is
A wonderfully frigid land,
So this little guy and his home
Go perfectly hand in hand!
So next time you're up north,
You should say a quick "hello!"
To this most adorable creature,
A Bruce made out of snow!
Withering snow gently falls,
Untainted, innocent, newly born.
Frosted now, it holds such fame.
Such a beauty is this lake.
Gliding gently, but standing tall,
With great ease, never torn.
Catching notes, but what's their name?
Who cares, they're all in there to take.
Little movement is the key to the call,
Audience applause, like a fog horn.
The bad notes are anything but tame.
More cracks? Oh for goodness sake!
Into a crack, he does but fall,
Judges now know the ice is worn.
Take little heed, he is but lame,
For a good score he did not make.
The Skating Bruce
I had been saying to myself, this is your mission:
To win the Happy Valley Skating Competition,
So when the loudspeaker switched on
And announced my name,
I nervously began my skate towards fame.
The first round was easy though a few did fail,
I, myself, got triple ten despite the heavy hail,
It was in the bag, I knew it from the beginning,
If I continued like that I'd clearly be winning.
But the second round was quite a hiccup;
On my fifth musical note I had a slipup,
The crowd, however,
Flashed me a comforting smile,
So I returned to my feet with sensational style.
I only just scraped through the shaky round two,
But there were still more rounds for me to do,
So with my head held high
And my confidence on the mend,
I skated each round finely through to the end.
By the last round there were
Vast holes in the ice,
Although I missed a few notes
It would have to suffice,
With just two skaters left, a Kacheek and me,
We waited for our scores
With a huge crowd to see.
While the Kacheek's scores were shown
I had to sit and wait,
Then my own were displayed:
A nine and an eight,
The last judge then smiled
And brought up his score,
The two digits on his card made the crowd roar!
Now I'm at home with the trophy by my side,
As I polish it daintily, I'm filled with humble pride,
Not just pride for myself,
But for Bruces everywhere,
My skating victory is one that we all can share.
Cascades of freshly fallen snow,
And patterns traced in ice.
Swirling free and gliding smooth,
In cold set pure and nice.
Notes now fly -- a brewing storm,
And you catch them with ease.
Beware though of the tainted ones,
Discord upon the breeze.
Flow and twist and twist again,
As the audience now applaud.
You smirk at the great response
From this massive, cheering hoard.
But without care in face of this,
One slight move spoils all.
A misplaced foot you realise now,
As you begin to fall.
With frown now black against your face,
The judges reveal the score--
Feeling shocked and most upset,
It was a two a three and a four!
Brucicles come in all colors,
Strawberry, lemon and lime.
And I'll tell you a story of a Bruce
Who committed a small crime.
His only crime was to walk,
Walking the treacherous ice.
Careless as he was, down he fell,
And he repeated this twice.
Third time's the charm,
He fell into a pool.
Stunned, stood there,
And felt like a fool.
Time passed quickly,
And he froze so still
Into a cold statue,
With a slight chill.
A traveller found in him,
In this sorrowful pose,
Said "Frozen pop... No!"
The name Brucicle he chose.
Sticking a stick below his toes,
The work of art was complete.
And that inspired the first Brucicle,
Isn't it rather neat?
Total Poetry Pages : 1971
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