Owls are known to screech and they can also hoot
But what’s far more important’s, they’re awfully cuoot.
I understand further that they’re supposed to be wise
Being equipped with an inner light for darknesses to surmise.
An owl had once unfortunately though, in broad and sunny daylight,
Arrived by mistake in my home, where it found no deelight.
Light brown feathers it had worn and could’ve been young or old,
And though I wished to pat its back, I wasn’t exactly bold.
It crouched in a corner — sightless, sad and scared,
In wilderness it’d landed, for all it could’ve cared.
It didn’t screech all through the day, nor did it hoot,
And it remained seated where it sat, infinitely cuoot.
Till the sun had managed to set and arrived a dusky shade,
When it began to stir a little and soon its wings it spreade.
Long were those wings and loud were its screech
As it flew from room to room and made me lose my spreech.
A frightened owl and a frightened mee
From each other as we tried to flee,
Hunter, we each thought, the other was,
Chasing its prey by jungle laws,
Till against a glass pane alas, the owl had finally crashed,
Which grumbled a little as expected, but dutifully crackshed,
Creating a hole through which the owl then speedily escaped,
As I shivered under a table alone and stupidly at it gayscaped.
I know not where it went to then, to screech or to hoot,
But wherever it may be now, it must be awfully cuoot.

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