Next came the tour guide, as old as the hills.
His charm gave even the blandest some thrills.
A strike of lightning, his stark white hair stood
Straight up, eyes sparkling bright green as the wood.
The other guides may judgmentally peer:
An unlicensed guide with freelance career.
He knew the moors like the back of his hand,
Those which had been his ancestor’s homeland.
Informing his guests, the truth he would bend.
“It's all in good fun; the world is my friend!”
Many complain my tours are tricked and teased,
But by my old lore, they always seem pleased.
So I'll tell you a tale of harmless fun,
Listen closely, as this tale shall be spun.
On the edge of town lived an old man, McGregor.
Kindly sheltering each passing beggar.
One cold night brought a loud tap on his door.
There was a traveller, tired and sore.
McGregor gave the boy food, clothes, and bread.
The kind man even offered his own bed.
In a deep sleep, resting upon the ground,
He was awakened by an eerie sound:
A thunderous buzz that quaked the man’s knees.
And out exploded a huge swarm of bees!
They swarmed the poor man of many years,
He swatted and wept many panicky tears.
The selfless old man rushed to the boy’s bed.
Discovering no boy, not even a head,
Poor McGregors face became very pale.
As he recalled the plot of an old Irish tale
Of the pookas, tricky native creatures,
Who had the power to change their features.
He realized that was what he let in.
He went to the beast and pleaded to him.
Tom asked for kindness like his own habit.
That's when the bees morphed into a rabbit!
It yelled “pranked!” And flashed an impish smile.
Tom sighed “I forgive you.” That was his style.
And so tricks had been played and fair was fair.
In the end, they were friends. (An unlikely pair.)
So don't scorn tricksters like the pooka and I.
Deep down, we’re really the nicest breed of guy.