Why Do Owls Look at Their Fannies So Often ? a Poem

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Why Do Owls Look at Their Fannies So Often ? - That question was asked of me, and, strange as it may be, I did not have a ready answer, Not having a quick answer was a most unusual sort of thing, but all that I could think of in answer to that question was that Nature provides front sides and back sides, both, and owls have figured out a way by which to keep tabs on both sides, bellies and fannies, without having to resort to use of a mirror. (What else might they have that is so worthy of the constant rotation of their big, fat heads ?) Come to consider things even further, who but a goofy poem-scribbler would put owls up on top of the "gotta write about this one..." list? So, one day, having become quite disaffected from owls, I joined the owl-doggerel crowd. I sit here today trying to remember when that might have been, but it is a date lost in the fog of jumbled history. I was lucky to have posted one rhyming diatribe all about owls and owl followers. Saved that deal on the computer and, after a ton of time, that post came into the light once again. You see, I am assembling my worthy doggerel into e-Book form - and the owls are going to be in there, somewhere in the middle of the e-Book so owls are not made to be too obvious as to spoil the collection. It is possible that I already posted this rhymed thing onto the Mill Otter (MyLotter) place before now, but, being old and having entered into the haven of senility (where stupid stuff is mostly forgiven by those around me) I might be forgiven for forgetting stuff like that. So here we go (maybe here we go again...) * * * * * * * * * * Of Owls and Poets (A rhyme dedicated to the probability of the improbability of the intelligence of both owls and poets) Longfellow, Shortfellow, Edward Lear, all fine poets, so I hear. The "long" one wrote of Indian feathers. The "short guy," rhymed with whys and whethers. Edward made us laugh and howl by concentrating on the owl. Back and forth their pens would go, each poet in a scribbling throe, and hard to tell, yes, hard to see, were faults within their poetry But Lear was funny - had us howling at his poems as he went owling. Said Lear to all from where he sat, "Owls are really where it;s at. I learned that from my many betters, those who taught me owling letters. That's why it is, right to this day, I laugh at owls in my own way." Lear's poet friends, though each was good, lived owl-less in their neighborhood. They never smiled as each wrote rhymes on papers through grim, owl-free times. "What we need here are owl birds to pep up all our solemn words." So, God, in his great wisdom, granted those poets that for which they'd ranted. Owls rained down from heaven above, owls that only God could love, owls of brown, owls of white, owls of daylight and of night. Lear, of course, was made distraught by owl deluges God had wrought. Ed's poet friends had to contend with owls and more owls without end. Crowds of owls and crowds of poets - Poets and owls, such "Think-they-know-its." * * * * * * * * * * Image: The Belly Bird - a Poetic Owl - Gus Kilthau