A bear one day closed in on a house,
Despite being big it crept like a mouse.
It crawled under the window-sill,
Lay down quiet as bears often will.
It heard music, a cool paw-tapper,
It excited itself and started a clapper.
(Fur does soften the clap into a thump,
So the people inside heard “fump, fump fump.”)
The bear was cold as its fur was patchy.
Warm inside? Music really catchy?
It decided to make itself like people,
Put on some pants and live under a steeple.
Long story short, so did others,
Inviting their venerable fathers and mothers.
The bears integrated into our towns,
They got jobs and wear pants with frowns.
But, there’s a problem, they are furry,
No kitchen jobs, and their speech is slurry.
(Technically, it’s a bit more roary,
But that’s bearism, and sounds a bit hoary.)
Holding a job is hard in hibernation,
6 months off? Not in my corporation!
That’s why the modern problem of ours:
Bear poverty and gangs, quite ugly flowers.
A bear gang war is not that nice,
A drive-bear-shooting drops them like flies.
So, my question here is this,
“Professor of ursalogy, Mr. Ibis,
What do we do and when and how?
Mass deportation, starting now?
I’m sorry, I think I missed every word,
A very low growl is all I heard.
Oh no! Wait! You’re one of them…”
Reporting the news at 6 p.m.