For better or for worse,
We praise before we curse
As friendly gran or nurse
Or teacher ever terse.

All sprouts that spring to life
Are welcome until rife,
Then comes the pruning knife,
Some disallowed to thrive.

More happiness is found
On ventures outward bound,
The way back much renowned
For tedium all around.

At every merry dance,
We start with hopeful plans,
But all may go askance
By virtue of mere chance.

When novelties arise,
More cautious are the wise.
Such newness oft belies
A lack of sure demise.

​

Never a mumbler be!
Better a bumble bee,
Ever to buzz in trees,
Ever to flowers tease.

Favor the humble bee;
Honor its certainty;
Into the breeze it braves
Yonder from eaves and caves.

Glowing with purpose pure,
Bearing harmonic cure,
Massive the life it sows,
Buzzing through endless rows.

Gather the voice to share,
Let out your words of care.
Nimbler than mumbler be,
Clarity p'raps to see.

​

​Ever aware of his remarkable appetite, Shortfellow offered a thoughtful version of the well-known lines that contrast the different pronunciations of "scone."

I asked the maid in dulcet tone
To order me a buttered scone;
The silly girl has been and gone
And ordered me a buttered scone.
—Anonymous
​
His own contribution from a perspective of delayed gratification was as follows:

I asked Valet in even tone
To serve me up a buttered scone;
But dozing off, he slept till dawn
And offered then to bake the scone. 

I set my jaw to gnaw a bone
While waiting prone for tardy scone.
One's eyes may drift to yon bonbon,
But nothing beats the scent of scone.

Aromas clear as voice on phone
Alert my tooth when ready scone.
I bark for oven mitts to don
And rescue me a lovely scone.

What care I now which sound is borne
When tongue shall taste and then adorn?
What'er the name, this dog is sworn 
To never leave a scone forlorn.
—Shortfellow (aka Lord Zakwoof of Glenwoof)

​Today I stirred when heard a bird
On windowsill a-calling me.
Its tweeted note, though not a word,
Insisted life was yet to be.

Of prospects bright on perches high
It sang in tune celestial,
Inviting one to rise and fly,
To live as if in festival.

Today I dared to hark to bird,
To seek the paths that lead above.
Not anymore to be deterred,
I flew the coop with wings of love.

​Shortfellow, in a moment of reflection about his diminutive but distinctive cousin, found himself here pointedly drawing on Lord Byron's famous lines for inspiration. He sought to convey his companion's quintessential character without specifically referencing her full title, which was Princess Zoelandia, the Supreme Huntress of the Woof Clan.

She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies.
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
—Lord Byron

She walks in booties, fit to fight,
With fearsome fang and piercing eyes.
And all the beasts that flee in fright
Run from her aspect, not her size.
—Shortfellow (aka Lord Zakwoof of Glenwoof)

She stalks in beauty like a cat
With endless time to play its prey.
And all that's pest, be thin or fat,
Find in her paws their final say.
—Shortfellow (aka Lord Zakwoof of Glenwoof)