When The Bough Breaks
A long time ago, (I mean way, way back)
There was once a large, burly lumberjack,
Who lived in a log cabin built by his dad
And dressed head to toe in denim and plaid.
From his wild, woolen locks that couldn’t be tamed,
To his biceps, triceps (and muscles yet to be named),
He redefined every possible physical norm,
With his large, impressive, magnificent form.
Each morning he’d rise and bathe in the stream,
Until his beard did glisten and gleam.
And then, for the rest of his day, his plans
Involved catching salmon with his two bare hands.
Then out from that stream where he often swam,
(The same one that housed a great man-made dam)
He’d walk to the forest to do his thing:
Felling tall trees with a single swing.
Now all the town’s children were instilled with fear,
Under no circumstances were they to go near
(They were told repeatedly until they understood)
That lonely log cabin that stood in the wood.
But one day the warnings a few did not heed,
And after brief discussion those few kids agreed
To embark on a plan, both foolish and rash,
And head to that stream to paddle and splash.
They arrived at the water, which sparkled and shone,
(Any doubt or second thoughts having now gone)
And with hard disregard for their shallow sin,
They stripped off their garments and promptly dove in.
For almost an hour they washed and they waded
Until their excitement had just about faded.
Their illicit activity that had once made them bold,
Gradually left them now just guilty and cold.
Though as they turned with intentions for solid ground,
They heard behind them an unsettling sound.
The dam’s capacity had just reached its peak,
And its large creaking logs had now sprung a leak.
At first it just trickled, but soon began gushing,
Threatening to send an entire torrent rushing.
Water dared to envelop from dizzying heights,
But the children stood frozen like deer in headlights.
“RUN”, a voice sounded, it came deep and booming,
And in dashed a figure, gigantically looming.
He ploughed through the water at a spectacular pace
And braced the precarious logs in their place.
His arms stretched wide, his impressive frame towering,
The children remained still, huddled and cowering.
He grunted and groaned under the immense weight,
Sparing the miscreants from their grisly fate.
“RUN”, he repeated, this time almost pleading,
His arms quietly quivering, his broad shoulders bleeding.
He grinned in a grimace as the pain became sharper,
And emitted a roar that made the poor youngsters scarper.
No sooner were those kids quickly clear of the creek,
When the world came crashing down behind, so to speak.
They fleetingly fled a tumultuous tumble,
Which deafened at first, then slowed to a rumble.
They hurried with haste down the narrow dirt track,
Not pausing even once to rest or look back.
When they entered the town, exhausted and pale,
They recounted to all their harrowing tale.
Of the lumberjack, more was neither heard nor seen,
And his log cabin eventually succumbed to the green.
The townsfolk rebuilt that dam up from the ground,
But his colossal corpse was nowhere to be found.
They erected a statue in his remembrance,
And it has stood in that wood by the town ever since.
A token of thanks for his great sacrifice,
Which, in my opinion, seems rather quite nice.