Along a narrow, winding trail,
I'm leading my scout troop along,
Merrily over hill and dale,
Singing scouting song after song.
I round a bend and bump into
A moose calf sleeping in the path.
From the thick brush, I hear a clue,
The sounds of mama moose in wrath.
I whirl around and shout, 'Go back.'
We topple down like dominoes.
I brace myself for her attack.
She stops her charge right at my toes.
Maybe maternal juices flow.
She lets us all get up and go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem