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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Pets / Animal Friends
- Published: 03/19/2015
HUNTING THE BUFFALUMPS
Born 1949, M, from Bridgwater, United KingdomHunting the Buffalumps
By Peter W. Mills
Early each morning, Rocky and I,
Go hunting the buffalumps under the sky.
Rocky’s our boxer, so big and so tan,
And I am his Daddy, though I am a man.
Through fields and through meadows, since he was a pup,
We buffalump hunt, and we never give up;
For we know that one day we shall see the amazing –
A herd of wild buffalumps peacefully grazing!
Long ages ago, the wolves were his sires,
With buffalo hunts across steppes and through mires
But now they are gone, and we’ll see them no more,
And Rocky had no way to equal their score.
So to give him his pride in the face of his tribe,
Who, unseen and silent, still run at his side,
I throw a small rock which will land with a bump,
And I tell him: “Look! Quick! It’s a big buffalump!
And through scrub and woodland he’ll charge and he’ll race,
A transport of joy written large on his face,
And he brings down a buffalump, feeling so grand,
Which he brings back to me and drops in my hand.
In the night, when he sleeps in his own comfy bed,
He wiffles and twitches at dreams in his head;
And I’m sure, as I listen, that he has gone back
To take his proud place at the head of his pack.
HUNTING THE BUFFALUMPS(Peter Mills)
Hunting the Buffalumps
By Peter W. Mills
Early each morning, Rocky and I,
Go hunting the buffalumps under the sky.
Rocky’s our boxer, so big and so tan,
And I am his Daddy, though I am a man.
Through fields and through meadows, since he was a pup,
We buffalump hunt, and we never give up;
For we know that one day we shall see the amazing –
A herd of wild buffalumps peacefully grazing!
Long ages ago, the wolves were his sires,
With buffalo hunts across steppes and through mires
But now they are gone, and we’ll see them no more,
And Rocky had no way to equal their score.
So to give him his pride in the face of his tribe,
Who, unseen and silent, still run at his side,
I throw a small rock which will land with a bump,
And I tell him: “Look! Quick! It’s a big buffalump!
And through scrub and woodland he’ll charge and he’ll race,
A transport of joy written large on his face,
And he brings down a buffalump, feeling so grand,
Which he brings back to me and drops in my hand.
In the night, when he sleeps in his own comfy bed,
He wiffles and twitches at dreams in his head;
And I’m sure, as I listen, that he has gone back
To take his proud place at the head of his pack.
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