Turtles

Burt and Myrtle, the Cos-muck Turtles

Myrtle, the turtle

Sat resting

On the bank

Of the storm-water pond

Soaking in whatever rays

The sun was sending;
Waiting for the next show

Of Mrs. Mallard’s

Floating duckie love.

Burt, another turtle,

Took a run
At having some fun

Making Myrtle into a hurtle

In the hot summer sun

[Or at least that’s the way

It looked.] 

After failing

To clear her ‘hurtle,’
However not near,

He didn’t give up
On the great turtle cup.

He kept on trying

To climb up her shell,  

To the other side of hell.

But poor little Myrtle,

Wouldn’t move one little bit

[For that he-turtle -hit].

She stayed in her place,

[Thank God, turtles don’t mace,

You should have seen her face]

And made ol Burt try to hurtle

Her without any help.

Poor Burt, it looked like it hurt.

He had to do all that work

And all he got was resistance!

After just a trace,

Of an endless mind numbing race

In the mental picture space of turtle mind,
Burt gave

Up on trying to hurtle

Poor lil Myrtle,
the female turtle

Anymore, forever…

[Until the next slow motion burst

Of Burt’s he-turtle inspiration.

He! He! He!]