Not one to be left out, Hookbill felt he should add some poetry from his homeland into the air. He spent some time devising something suitable, in an upbeat mood, after all, this was a Birthday Party. He stood upon his table and cleared his thought.
Now, once, although his time is long due
There was old man, dressed in blue
he never wandered far from his home
There were many, who would pick a bone,
With him while he still had time
So he'd sit and wait till the weather was fine.
He'd dance about while some made a toast,
to the business of the one who'd boast,
No one would catch the old man in his land
But there are no battlements that are manned
While the old dogs howl with sadness
We know that the willow grows in madness
No one has ever caught him, he's the master
Do you know him? No one is faster.
He'll never be seen down by a mill,
His name is Tom Bomba-
At that moment, Hookbill slipped off the table and landed in a water bucket. There were cheers and laughter as Hookbill staggered to his feet.
"His name is Tom Bamba-" He began, but then collapsed in his seat.