by Mary Druce You’ve heard the tale of Goldilocks Since you were in short pants and socks; And so, dear friends, I will not bore You with a tale you’ve heard before. Except to say that when the bears Returned, and padded up the stairs, Their glance was hardly more than cursory When Baby Bear shrieked from the nursery; For Mummy Bear (whose name was Ruth) Knew he embroidered on the truth, And Daddy Bear (whose name was Ben) Had smacked him time and time again And poked him sharply in the ribs To stop his cub from telling fibs. ‘No, honest, Dad, this time I’m not. Someone’s been sleeping in my cot. A little girl. And she’s still there.’ ‘Well, bugger me,’ said Daddy Bear. When Mummy Bear gave her a shake Poor Goldilocks was soon awake, With eyes as wide as saucers she, Beholding ursine creatures three, Threw back the duvet on the bed And down the cottage stairs she fled. Then somewhere in the forest deep Subsided in a panting heap. She was discovered by a bunch Of wolves, who ate her up for lunch. It really was a dreadful shame, But those three bears were not to blame. They weren’t the grizzly type of bear, But kindly teddies who would share Their humble home, with good intention To anyone you’d care to mention. A nicer gang you’d never find. It’s too late now. So never mind.
The end