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SCORCHIO DAY SPECIAL
To the Rescue! Petpet Rescue!
With his crimson wings streaked with yellow,
With his unwavering green eyes ready for action,
With his lightning reflexes and litheness,
He will save the day.
Upon seeing him, the Petpets relax;
Help is on the way.
From the shining entryway, he goes.
He dodges flying pieces of falling stalactite.
He jumps from boat to boat, without being scalded,
Without falling into the fiery depths below.
He navigates around the boulders,
He saves the Petpet.
And he returns the poor, quivering soul
Back where he belongs.
He returns the Petpet home.
Who is this fellow,
So brave, so valiant?
Why, he's Samuel, the fierce Scorchio,
Who comes to the rescue of the innocent.
He is the Petpet rescuer.
To the Petpets,
He's their saviour.
My Scorchio on Scorchio Day
My Scorchio is friend or foe,
Depending on the soul you ask.
She practises at breathing fire --
She makes this chore her daily task.
But woe to those who bother her!
She tolerates no silly fool.
Without a care, she sends a flare
Of fiery flaming ridicule.
"Why do you come to badger me?"
My Scorchio might scream aloud.
"You have no better thing to do?"
She blazes on against the crowd.
She's short of temper, this is true,
But toward her friends she's sweet as pie.
So if you'll stay, please watch your tongue
Or else you'll watch those fireballs fly!
My Scorchio, she breathes her flame
And tries to keep her temper low.
But mostly she can't stand to be
Around those who hate her glow.
No wonder she, like all her kind,
Prefers hot lands she finds in flight!
She's free to be who she will be
And free to set the world alight!
My Scorchio is no frail wimp.
She'll gladly join in any fray.
I welcome her with open arms
On this, the Scorchios' Day!
Gliding through a mountain ablaze,
Flapping vigorous wings.
Eluding boulders and embers alike,
And other pernicious things.
Headed to a destination unknown,
The heart of Tyrannia spares none.
Glubgar, braving the scorching heat,
Prepares for a menacing run.
Searing winds engulf all
Who dare to infiltrate.
Deep in the core of the mountain,
Elaborate gems await.
Dangers from all four corners,
Await the Scorchio.
Diving headfirst into the heart,
Dodging to and fro.
Plunging straight into the fiery depths,
Glubgar takes control.
Majestic and with agile grace,
He does a barrel-roll.
Near the end of his epic journey,
Tired Glubgar is.
Gliding across the blistering valley
The prize is nearly his.
Covered in burns and charred skin,
Glubgar finishes the run.
With countless gems in his possession,
He is glad it's all done.
The first to achieve this of his kind,
The first to find a way.
Glubgar, valiant and rather proud,
On this fruitful Scorchio Day.
Orange scales, spiky tails.
Eyes wide, large, and green.
Wings fight against the current
To view mysterious places unseen!
Webbed paws outstretched,
Paddling here and there.
Venturing through colourful coral --
Watch out, Scorchio, you're in for a scare!
Turning round the corner,
There waiting was a giant squid.
Tentacles long, pink, and menacing,
It watched everything that the Scorchio did.
The squid unleashed his terrible weapon,
The daring Scorchio dashed and dived.
Squirming and twirling, turning and swirling,
By the skin of his fins, he survived!
The daring Maraquan Scorchio
Swam back to the shores to tell his story
Of how he escaped a nearly terrible fate
And, from his risk, received fame and glory!
You see, dear Neopians,
Almighty Scorchios, brave and bold!
Today we celebrate their existence
And the stories that they have told.
The Scorchio Referee
Beneath the roaring, screeching stands,
He waits, that whistle in his hands.
The atmosphere is fit to thrill,
The crowd, excited, can't sit still.
One Scorchio, the referee,
Is there to judge the game they see.
When the whistle sounds out loud,
He hears the calls from cheering crowd.
The referee they all support,
(Unless his judgment should fall short!)
For in each match of Yooyuball,
It's this Scorchio who makes the call!
A goal? His whistle's ringing out,
"No goal!" He gives an echoed shout.
The fans within the heaving stand,
Half-cheer, half-boo at this command.
Though jeer as some supporters might,
The call he makes is always right.
No other Scorchio may claim
They do preside over a game.
Yet in his garment, striped and clean,
He is the judge of hectic scene.
Although the fans may cry and shout,
They're silenced when he's calling out.
Total Poetry Pages : 2008
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