The Soul of the Vole

The vole he is a taciturn, or maybe not, it's no concern,
He plays the cello late at night, and wears pyjamas in daylight,
His hat is bright, it glows at night, his slippers made of pastry,
They trail limp in the mud and wet, and make his footfalls hasty.
But mourn not for the podgy vole, or his sartorial glee,
He wears a suit of best pan loaf, that's good enough for me.

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