Ingrid

A fubsy lass was Ingrid, round about the waist. Twas only at the dinner bell, when Ingrid made her haste. Warned did her mum, her chanking was a clatter. To fubsy lil Ingrid though, nothing was the matter. Such a savory din, didn’t go unheard, a rangy wolf she’d summoned, without a spoken word. The porridge in her bowl, was not the wolfs concern, as fubsy little Ingrid was soon about to learn.