Parades are few and far between, and some aren’t very good.
The animals decided they would have one of their own.
The lion said, “I’ll be in charge, and run it like one should,
and promise it will be the best the kingdom’s ever known.”
The fox said, “This will be such fun. I’ll play the piccolo,”
and then giraffe said, “If you please, I’ll be the majorette,”
but alligator disagreed and said, “I don’t think so.”
“You’re much too tall, you’ll block us all,” the mouse said with regret.
That’s when they started arguing in growls and grunts and squeaks
‘bout who’d play this and who’d play that, decisions to be made,
and when they had their parts assigned, they practiced thirteen weeks.
(They had to watch the weasel, ‘cause he’d sneak off to the shade.)
Then came the day for their parade; they marched down every road.
Their lines were straight, their music great, oh, my, they were so grand.
The birds flew in, the squirrels were there, the possum, snail, and toad,
all thrilled to hear it, see it – The Woodland Marching Band.
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