The Riddle Of The Stones Poem by Millie I. Cassell

In the middle of the zones,
In a country far away,
They fiddle the tones
On a second-handed ukulele.
Very little are the loans
In a place called Zimbabwe.
The acquittal Abdul grows,
Was for shooting some prey.
They griddle the cones
For food. -No need to pay.
They whittle the bones,
And make them into clay.
The spittle of the cobra stones
For the fear he causes the blue jay.
The little bit of venom he owns,
They may need to use today.
They skadittle the unknowns,
To pass the time of day.
The riddle of thee stones,
Will then be shown on x-ray.