OWED TO THE ARMADILLO By: W. L. Peters
One night upon my pillow,
I met an Armadillo.
He weighed about a kilo,
And talked about a cat
Who tried to do him in,
A Texas mortal sin,
And woe be unto him
Who attacks the armored rat.
An insectivore with charm,
Who never does no harm,
He lives upon the farm,
And sits upon his karma,
Big and fat.
Alas! an Armadillo's fate,
Is to be noisy when it's late.
And when he has a date,
His shiny armor plate
Is sure to bump and grate,
But he has the Lord to thank.
He built him like a tank
That travels underground.
So when the predator hears a sound
The prey just don't hang 'round,
At the first feel of fear,
He puts his claws in gear,
And soon it's just his rear
That slowly disappears.
So, let's root with the Armadillo,
Our tiny Texas host.
Let's drink to the Armadillo,
‘cause I owe him a toast.