And the larks and the maggies are singing,

When blue skies abound, you can feel all around,

That springtime is finally springing.

It’s time to head out and go searching for dung,

For a soft gooey cowpat, though strange it may seem,

To a dung beetle, tastes like a scrumptious ice-cream.

Till his nose caught the scent of some cows, on the breeze.

And where there are cows you will usually find

That freshly made cowpats are not far behind.

A couple of heifers, one brown and one white,

And he asked in a manner so very polite

(For his parents had taught him his wrong from his right),

“Please spare me a cowpat kind ladies.

Please spare me a cowpat or two.

I’ve just woken up from my slumber,

And I need a nice cowpat to chew.”

Looked down in disgust and began to complain.

“Scuttle off! Get away! You’re cramping our style.

You’re simply revolting. You’re filthy! You’re vile!

The farmer is coming. We cannot be seen

With someone whose habits are quite so obscene.”

Oh, crikey! How mean!

Poor dung beetle. Really, what was he to do?

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was true.

His tummy was empty. His hunger pangs grew.

So, he slumped by the creek and he sobbed, “Boo-hoo-hoo.”

The boos and the moos of despair,

As fate brought together this cow and this beetle

With troubles they needed to share.

And she told how The Show was her one little dream,

And he talked about cowpats that taste of ice-cream.

She spoke of those heifers that just didn’t care,

And he said how those sisters had been so unfair.

Imagine the mess if it wasn’t for us.”

“I can quite imagine it,” Molly replied,

As beautiful notions welled up from inside,

Until, in her mind, like a bolt from the blue,

A win-win solution just popped into view.

“Eureka!” she shouted, “I know what to do!”

Eat all my cowpats as quick as you can.

Don’t dilly, don’t dally,” said Molly, “make haste.

The farmer is coming. There’s no time to waste.”

Gratefully guzzling dung willy-nilly.

He dined upon cowpats like never before,

Gorging himself till his tummy grew sore,

And full to the brim he could manage no more.

“I’m sorry, I’ve failed,” the dung beetle wailed,

“The plan’s come undone and you’re back to square one.”

Had the plot been a flop? Had her scheme been in vain?

Had Molly’s last hope disappeared down the drain?

To be continued…

And the swallow is high on the wing,

When the blossom comes out and the bees hum about,

You can smell the arrival of spring.

Is time for the Stringybark Downs Country Show,

Where they have, for those lucky enough to appear,

The chance to be crowned as ‘The Cow of the Year’.

A sense of excitement was growing,

As word went about that the farmer was out

To pick up the cows who were going.

“Our horns are a sight to behold.”

“And surely he’ll see,” said her sister, Lorraine,

“Our hides fairly shimmer like gold.”

Then a voice ‘cross the way said, “I’d love to go too.”

‘Twas the sweet gentle mooing of Molly Malloo. “But dear Molly,” they giggled, “he’ll never pick you.”

You’re wide in the rump, you would have to confess.

Your tail is all tatty and as for those thighs,

Have you seen your reflection? They’re not the right size.

To think you’d be chosen is simply absurd.

Just face it,” they teased her, “YOU’RE FROM THE WRONG HERD!”

Oh dear. Oh, my word.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was true.

She thought of The Show and her misery grew.

So, she lay by the creek and she cried, “Moo-hoo-hoo.”

To be continued…