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A Drumlin Woodchuck

A Drumlin Woodchuck

One thing has a shelving bank, 
Another a rotting plank, 
To give it cozier skies 
And make up for its lack of size. 

My own strategic retreat 
Is where two rocks almost meet, 
And still more secure and snug, 
A two-door burrow I dug. 

With those in mind at my back 
I can sit forth exposed to attack 
As one who shrewdly pretends 
That he and the world are friends. 

All we who prefer to live 
Have a little whistle we give, 
And flash, at the least alram 
We dive down under the farm. 

We allow some time for guile 
And don't come out for a while 
Either to eat or drink. 
We take occasion to think.

And if after the hunt goes past 
And the double-barreled blast 
(Like war and pestilence 
And the loss of common sense), 

If I can with confidence say 
That still for another day, 
Or even another year, 
I will be there for you, my dear, 

It will be because, though small 
As measured against the All, 
I have been so instinctively thorough 
About my crevice and burrow.

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