there's a creature in Whyville no one knows of
with buttermilk skin and the voice of a dove
quietly it sits alone
on its golden flowered throne
ever busy, never to tire
its wings woven with threads of fire
cannot sleep
will not peep
though is sat on by Whyvillians all day
in the corner of the Sportsplatz does it lay
on the petal of a flower its home is made
and there she rests 'till the sun does fade
then she goes where no one knows
perhaps where birds go when it snows
so be kind to this hard working dryad
and before you sit on her, lay down a pad