That is why I'm late today.
It happened by the river,
as I stood oak still.
They toothtackle jumped my leg,
must have smelled the pine.
They took it away to their dam,
dragging me, I clutched, screaming,
pleading for my leg.
They bled my hand, cut my grip.
I stumblehopped down the bank,
after them, eager for my leg.
They wanted it more.
We fought with words and chisels.
For the final piece of dams
Red hands, flying tails,
flaming beaver screams.
I trophied my sopping leg,
and continued on my way.
But, I was felled once again.
Two clubbing tails
drove me away from the prize.
Before I could retaliate,
they frantically hid it away
in their little pond.
Snickering victory
chased me hopping to school.
That is why I'm late today.
Beavers stole my leg.