Spinning A Poetry Hat

The air has turned chilly.

They leave Bunyip behind.

A high pitched buzzing sound comes from Arthur's pocket.

What's that noise? asks Sweezus.

The cicada, says Arthur. He's coming up with a poem.

Cool, says Sweezus. Has it got a title?

A Song Of Peach Blossom River, says Arthur.

Inside Sweezus's back pack, Terence is listening.

I'm coming up with a poem, says Terence.

Yeah? says Sweezus. What's yours called?

A Song Of Dinosaur Teeth Rolling, says Terence, inventing quickly.

Got far? asks Sweezus.

Everywhere, says Terence. I wish Gaius didn't make me break the lid of my box. Now I'm standing on teeth.

What's this? asks Gaius.

Terence is making a poem, says Sweezus. It's about standing on teeth.

Very commendable, says Gaius. May we hear it?

It might not be finished, says Sweezus.

It IS finished! says Terence. It goes:

A SONG OF DINOSAUR TEETH ROLLING
Burrowee burrowoo
If you were me
Standing on teeth
You'd roll too
Burrowee burrowoo

That's not bad, says Arthur.

Yeah, for an improv, says Sweezus.

Burrowee, burrowoo? says Gaius.

The high pitched buzzing gets louder.

He's done, says the Elegant Parrot.  Get him out.

Arthur pulls the cicada out of his pocket.

Thank you, says the Green Grocer Cicada. I've been spinning a poetry hat.

And he has. The Green Grocer Cicada is wearing a poetry hat, spun from dental floss.

The hat was at Arthur's suggestion.

I have finished my poem, A Song of Peach Blossom River, says the Green Grocer Cicada.

It is about a poor fisherman who discovers a hidden world in a cave at the end of a river
The people there speak an ancient language and wear simple clothes
They left the world behind long ago and came seeking refuge
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away
No one in the cave knowing anything outside
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds......
The fisherman stays for a while, then leaves, intending to return
But he can never again find the hidden source at the end of the blue stream.

Whose is best? asks Terence.

Yours, says the Elegant Parrot. Yours rhymes.

But you made up fake words, says Sweezus. The cicada's is kind of..... prophetic.

It IS  pathetic. says Terence. But I suppose he tried hard.

The air becomes even more chilly, as they cycle through Drouin.

They stop to put on their Kathmandu jackets in Warragul.

Terence snuggles down under his tam o'shanter on the rolling teeth that won him Best Poet.