Turtle With Temper Poem by Michelle Claus

I’m a turtle with temper, I have to admit.
Not proud to declare it, not boastful one bit.
On the one hand, I’m calm, collected, and sage,
But beneath my firm shell bakes a fiery rage.

For instance, just yesterday, ’round two o’clock
A fellow named Ichabod sunned on my rock.
He nestled all comfy and warm, unaware
That I am the tortoise who suns herself there.

In an effort to seem like a reptile with grace,
I quietly crawled to a different space.
On a rock unfamiliar, a stone not well known,
I settled myself with a murmurous groan.

Though my lips bore a grin like a neighborly sheath,
Within my locked jaw I gritted my teeth.
My squatty legs quivered, my shell tightly shook;
I cast yonder Ichabod many a look.

For the rest of that day, through the long, restless night,
I concocted a plan to reclaim my due right.
While Ichabod basked in meridian sun
I turtled to town and purchased some fun:

a bottle of glue! My scheme was a jewel.
When Ichabod swam, I slathered the stool.
I slithered away, cool and discreet,
awaiting his fate of immovable feet.

And so it transpired. Ichy perspired.
His sticky predicament rendered him tired.
He tried to un-stick; the glue was cement.
His lesson was learned; he knew what I meant.

Poor Ichabod slumped there night after night,
and day after day he suffered his plight.
When the glue lost its grip and his soles were released
Ichabod fled and headed southeast.

I mounted my rock, my favorite place,
settled my shell and smirked like an ace.
But a message was written in leftover glue:
In our Village of Turtles, a temper won’t do.

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