Davey the Dunnart loved to play horn.
He’d play every night from dusk until dawn.
Down by the creek he would jam with his band.
Their sound became famous all over the land.

Roo played the bass, with possum on drums,
Bandicoot swung on the harmonium.
Drongo would warble a sound warm and clear,
Bat’s jazz guitar was smooth to the ears.

They’d come from the trees, from the Mallee and swamps,
to jump and to jive, to swing and to stomp,
to dance through the night right up to the morn,
all dazzled, enchanted by Davey’s sweet horn.

Then one moonlit night Davey didn’t appear.
It seemed that their friend had gone, disappeared!
The animals searched all the places they knew,
and even looked inside the park rangers’ shoe. 

But Davey was nowhere. He could not be found.
‘Where can he be?’ his friends wondered and frowned.  
As day turned to night, a smell filled the air.
The sky had turned black and a bushfire declared.

Thoughts of poor Davey were put to one side
as everyone ran to find places to hide.
The heat was intense. Many lost homes,
and when it was over were left all alone.

After some time, the healing began.
Green was returning to parts of the land.
Flowers had buds, trees had fresh bark, 
and once again music was heard after dark.

Then out of the blue on one bright full moon night,
the sound of a horn was heard soft and light.
‘Could that be Davey?’ croaked frog in surprise 
The crowd was amazed and tears filled their eyes. 

‘Davey!’ they cried as they rushed to embrace.
‘We thought we would never again see your face,
or hear that jazz sound only your horn can play.
We’re so glad to see you, so glad you’re okay.’

Davey looked up at the friends gathered near,
and smiled a big smile that stretched ear to ear.
He took to the stage and blew that sweet horn
and everyone danced from dusk until dawn.   

Do not touch.  Just look with eyes
devoid of fear to fantasise.
The female spider poised in web
begins to move her slender legs.

And gracefully she plays her song
like fingered harp-strings.  Fragile, long.
With four front limbs she picks her tune.
Preferred selection Claire De Lune.

Accomplished legs instead of hands
can gently pluck those chosen strands.
Locating ones that soon vibrate
the presence of a tasty bait.

The silent fly snared by her threads
has changed the notes mad by her web.
With little sight she finds her catch
with musical prowess to match.

The dish ran away with the spoon

since the cat couldn’t keep up a tune

the dog grabbed the fiddle

chewed it right through the middle

and the cow stayed up on the moon

I went to feed my hairy canary
When a bald eagle swept down low.
That made my canary very contrary
So the eagle had to go.

There’s nothing more scary
Than a hairy canary —
It’s really very clear.
Even an eagle,
Disguised as a beagle,
Had better not come too near.

The animals were getting ready,
For this was their last chance,
To make themselves beautiful,
For the barnyard dance.
There she was, Molly, the sow,
Dressed up to the nines,
Accompanied by Billy, the goat,
Whose appearance was refined.
They wandered in, two by two,
And mingled with each other,
And then approached the dance floor,
Where they heard the drummer.
The donkey played the drums,
Whilst the cow took to the fiddle,
The rooster stood and ‘crowed’ his song,
Whilst the rest danced in the middle.
The Border Collie began to ‘howl’,
And soon the ducks ‘quacked’ in,
The others joined into the throng,
Which created quite a din.
They sang and danced together,
Until the break of dawn,
Then, off to bed they wandered,
To be there for the morn.
 

On the top of Wanton Hill,

Surrounded by the herd,

Stood Molly Moo the calf,

Appearing quite absurd.

She had brambles on her head,

And burrs on her tail,

And if not mistaken,

She was looking rather pale.

Molly sought her mother,

To get her help, attention,

Mother looked and laughed,

At poor Molly’s situation.

She removed the burrs slowly,

Causing little pain,

Then removed the brambles,

Molly Moo free once again.

Without the humble busy bee,
We'd have a lot less things to eat.
They pollinate the fruit on trees,
They help to make strawberries sweet.

Tomatoes grow because of bees,
And big fat happy pumpkins too.
Melons, lemons, broccoli, squash —
No wonder bees have lots to do!

Stick insects are so very thin
Yet still insist on shedding skin
And even when they grow much bigger
Will maintain their sylph-like figure.

Don’t mess
with those bombardier beetles
gathered in groups
in a world of woods.
This warning’s for ants,
frogs and people:
THEY’RE HIDING A CANNON
INSIDE THEIR CABOOSE!

This chamber of secrets?
A chemistry lab,
cooking up bombs
in their abdomen.
Steaming-hot acid,
fired out in zaps.
Toxic and boiling,
again and again.

They’ll twist round their torsos
well enough
to aim at whatever
caused them to huff.
But their tail-end skin
must be really tough …
or their rears would be hurting
when squirting that stuff!
Bombadier Beetle

https://www.wired.com/2014/05/absurd-creature-of-the-week-bombardier-beetle/

I have a praying mantis,
I keep it for a pet;
It dances on my hand,
A funny minuet.

But out in our back garden,
I like to watch it catch
Lots of harmful insects,
And guard our vegie patch.