The Ballad of Pontillia Perlmutter, close to the end.

Now everyone was

afraid of her,

except her much,

much older lover.

And the military

was on alert

no matter what,

to help the nation recover!


Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!



Then she discovered

the wonder of books,

and she'd eaten half a tonne

before she took a look.

Harry Potter caught her eye,

and she stopped her feeding,

to beg to be taught

to take up reading!



Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!



Once she learned,

she didn't stop.

she began to read,

everything that was ever wrot!

She raided libraries,

diaries, repositories!

She pestered writers

and read as they wrote their stories!



Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!



Finally, she became wroth,

and stood up with a quiver,

shouting," All this writing is rot,

and I can do better! "

So she stole a typewriter,

fifty reams of paper,

a chair and a table,

and then commenced her caper.



Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!



Within a week,

she'd written a novel,

that was bid for at eight million,

but she wasn't willing!

" If this is to be the bestest

that ever the best has been,

I've got to edite and reedite,

and maybe you'll get it then! "


Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!



And so, she sits,

to this day,

bent over double,

scribbling and erasing away.

She swears and she mutters,

as she polishes her prose,

while vines twine her hair

and roots grab her toes.


Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!



So, if you walk past

what seems to be a thicket

and you hear scratching and clicking,

stay clear of it!

For it's just ol'

Pontillia Perlmutter, m'dear,

working, working away,

for the fiftieth year!



Por wheedle, por wheedle,
weedle weedle woo!
You've got nothing,
You've got nothing,
Nothing better to do!