Right you are Chatty, my dear,
Pastures are no place,
To roam about, this time of year.

But my poems take on a life of their own,
And I'll rhyme almost anything,
Be it near or far, or close to home.

So I'll watch where I step,
Where I creep and where I've crept.

And I'll assure those dearly concerned,
I'll trample lightly, 'round every turn.