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Through the jungle of the island of Grop
Tread eyes of black and feet of stone,
Rivers splash, mountains drop, to the flinty flesh
The Gregigor releases its mighty moan.
The little Trug came hopping through there,
The little paws clutching a nut.
His tail was twitching with his energy,
Now he could fill his gut.
Unwary he was and unwatchful
His pink eyes filled with mirth and glee.
The Gregigor then caught him
And he cried, “Please do not eat me.”
“Do not eat me,” he said again.
“Why not?” the Gregigor said to him.
“For I am a special Trug,” he replied.
“For I know where is the fruit of kaflim.”
“What is this fruit?” the Gregigor boomed.
“Why, it is a very special fruit;
It gives speed, strength, intellect
And immortality to boot.”
“Show me this fruit,” the Gregigor squanked,
“For it is my greatest desire.”
The Trug winked and nodded its head
With the general air of a liar.
He nodded toward the cliff and said,
“See that nut way far down there?”
The Gregior nodded and jumped.
He whizzed and zipped right through the air.
He caught the nut within his mouth
And with a sigh of ecstasy
He ate the nut as fast as a blink
And hit his head into a tree.
The Gregigor died that day
And let this be a lesson to you.
Follow not immortality,
Itself a lie untrue, untrue.