Catching fireflies, the heat, found a strange little cottage,

The smell through the window of nice hot porridge.

Fresh pie on the sill, flowers in a blue bottle,

I zoomed through a gate in the fence made of wattle.

Lethargic after my pilfered snack,

Someone was coming, so I crept out the back.

I never did see whose breakfast I plundered

And they never knew who brought fireflies—but wondered.