This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

So bright the birch leaves on my lawn,
So soft their drift in weak sun's blaze;
A spark of flame on Autumn's breath,
Now damping down with faerie glaze.

I scuff my boots through pixie tracks
(The little gits keep sneaking through
My lovely lawn, all dew-bejewelled;
I wish they wouldn't, but they do).

Behold! What's this? A mushroom huge!
Towering brolly rising tall
With tree-thick stalk and helmet-head;
I'd climb the thing, but fear I'd fall.

Whence came this monstrous mushyroom?
What elves have brought it to my grass?
What sort of toad is large enough
To plonk upon it one large ass?

Rain's dripping down its fungal rim
And I can shelter 'neath its shade.
There's room enough, as I inspect,
To scoop a house, sweet gnome-work made.

The earth has offered many things,
And I am grateful. Yes, I am!
I've fruits and nuts to last 'til Spring
Inside this mushroom - that's my plan.

Jack's magic beanstalk's not a patch
Upon this new-found winter home,
And as the winds and ice storms growl,
I'll live here happy: snug, fat gnome!

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.