THERE'S A MOOSE ON MY ROOF

THERE'S A MOOSE ON MY ROOF

         There's a moose on my roof I'm delighted to say.

         A moose who wasn't here yesterday.

         Yesterday, my roof was long, black, and bare.

         But now a moose has decided to sit up there.

         A moose on a roof must be a rare one-of-a-kind find,

         Because my neighbours' roofs are empty, just shingles aligned.

         Well okay, I see something on their roofs. It is true.

         I see a frisbee, a baseball, a hat, and one shoe.

         But there's only one moose up on top of a house;

         Yes, a large dark animal-a moose, not a mouse.

         It's definitely a moose, long-legged and brown

         With a heavy set of antlers worn like a crown.

         Why is he sitting and why up so high?

         Is he attempting to climb to the sky?

         Is he having a rest up on my roof or did he stop to ponder?

         Should he have climbed a hill or a tree when he decided to wander?

         If I was stuck on a roof and did not know what to do

         I would probably have to sit and think it through too.

         When I sit still and my mind works on a puzzle

         My stomach will growl and demand a snack to nuzzle.

         When I am hungry I can choose almost anything to eat.

         But what do I offer a moose who chose my roof as a seat?

         I prefer cookies, any kind will do.

         But what does this moose like; bugs, plants, fondue?

         I'll go ask my Mom, she seems to know a great deal.

         She'll know exactly what a moose chooses as a perfect meal.

         The problem is sometimes Mom doesn't listen to me;

         She's so easily distracted and claims to be busy.

         I need the right moment, a time when she'll hear,

         And not nod her head and mumble, "Yes dear."

         At suppertime, when I'm at work on my dinner plate,

         Mom asks lots of questions; she wants to relate.

         But this is the morning, the moose needs food now.

         Mom won't have supper ready, not yet, no how.

         Mom won't be of help yet, the time is not right

         To ask what a moose likes to chew and to bite.

         This morning I was thirsty and needed a drink when I got out of bed;

         Perhaps this moose is not yet hungry, but thirsty instead.

         This I can handle; something for the moose to drink.

         All animals seem to choose water, and like it, I think.

         But how do I get water to the moose on my roof?

         I need a sure fire plan; something safe and foolproof.

         I can fill a pail with water, cold and wet.

         To a moose on a hot roof it will be welcome I bet.

         The pail is not a problem, there's one in the shed.

         But how do I lift a pail of water high and overhead?

         I could form a lasso in a rope and throw it just right;

         Then I could tie a knot 'round the brim and pull it real tight.

         I'd aim for the chimney and after two or three tries

         The pail of water would be dangling in front of my eyes.

         But the problem with this is the water might spill,

         And I might be quite busy with refill after refill.

         With a hose I could shoot water in a fountain-like spray,

         But does a moose on a roof know how to drink this way?

         And what if the cold water shooting from the hose

         Hit the moose in his face and was forced up his nose?

         I know I don't like this; it's really not very pleasant.

         And the thought of an angry wet moose makes me hesitant.

         One misstep, one sudden movement, and the moose could slip.

         A fall from a roof is possible when you're wet and you drip.

         But how did that moose get up there? Now that's a mystery.

         It's the first time I've seen one; there is no history.

         Can a moose possibly fly like a reindeer or a bird?

         Or is this a crazy idea; just silly and absurd?

         Did this moose flap his antlers? Did he move really fast?

         Is his fur made of feathers? Or was he shot up with a blast?

         Did the moose use a parachute? Did he jump from a plane?

         Did he hang from a kite or a balloon? I can't explain.

         Perhaps he mounted a ladder, one rung at a time;

         With four long skinny legs it must have seemed a long climb.

         But I don't see a ladder or a parachute or a kite.

         If he used any of these things they're nowhere in sight.

         I still see the moose who is not eating or drinking.

         He's still sitting on my roof and he seems to be thinking.

         What problems force a moose to think?

         Does he worry about his size and wish he could shrink?

         Does he wonder about what, where, and when he will eat?

         Or does he worry about tripping over his four big feet?

         Now that he's on my roof and looking around

         Is the moose planning how to return to the ground?

         Maybe the moose is up there to enjoy the scenery.

         He's just relaxing, unwinding, viewing the greenery.

         Perhaps he imagines himself in a hot tub with a straw in his drink;

         Or he fancies that he's lying on a beach turning pink.

         I must admit all these thoughts and this thinking

         Are tiring me out, my energy's sinking.

         I have so many questions and not one single answer.

         I need my Mom's help. I can't wait. I must ask her.

         I know it's not suppertime and this is not an emergency,

         But my moose-on-the-roof questions have their own kind of urgency.

         I could stay outside and yell, "Mom, come quick!"

         With the right tone of voice this could do the trick.

         And when she comes running I'll point and shout,

         "I think it's a moose. Do you have any doubt?"