by Jim Hill
Of all the noises I can make
the one that always takes the cake,
surprises some, and spooks a few,
is the mating call of the Groo.
Now don’t look shocked it’s not obscene,
The Groo is chaste and most serene.
When he finds he’s in the mood
He strikes a pose and cops a ‘tude.
The music starts, a string quartet,
don’t blush now, they’re almost set.
He clears his throat and with a start
lets loose a ripping, roaring fart.