By: Ursula Machi
Somewhere, beyond the mounthills,
In a lantry far from being recembered,
Lives the vulrow.
When it flies, it spreads ferills,
When it shries, it is Febmember.
It hunts woldoe.
The vulroe lives alone, the only birl.
It sits sad in thje talees; lonating.
Never finding anocend.
There will never be such curlons
Quite like shis, forever the memory gonating.
Learn to holfind it.