Farnsworth Poem by Steve Howard

Farnsworth caught the poison oak,
while questing in the fen.
Rubbed each bump and gall with alcohol,
then ran circles in the glen.
The wildlife watched in wonder,
as Farnsworth scampered by.
And from crotch to knees,
he was ill at ease,
as he gave a mournful cry.
The titmouse he took pity,
and said, "Give this a try.
Apply a goop of titmouse poop,
you'll feel better by and by.".
Yet Farnsworth seemed ungrateful,
and gave forth no reply.
He just ran in itchy circles,
with a whimpered itchy sigh.
This made titmouse angry,
who while leaving on the fly,
did shoot a goop of titmouse poop,
right into Farnsworth's eye.
Now some say he ran to Memphis.
Some say north to old St. Paul.
But I think he's still here with us,
and not left the place at all.
So should you woodland wander,
and hear vague rustlings on the breeze,
it might just be old Farnsworth,
scooting doughnuts through the trees.