Rooster's Attack on the Forest

Protests over deportations!

Where redwoods rise and dry winds whip,

And surf hums low beneath the cliff,

A cry rang out from canyon floor—

And peace was not the rule no more.

In shaded groves where foxes nest,

The raids had torn through bark and breast.

Young voices rose with signs held high—

Their dreams disturbed beneath the sky.

Then Rooster Goldcrest flared his crown

And scratched a scroll from skyline down:

"No state shall squawk or flap or flee—

The Ridge is under only me."

With banners red and orders spread,

The Hawks in armor swiftly sped.

They circled low on whispered cues—

No nest had called, but still they flew.

Then Governor Newt, with steady tone,

Spoke from a stone beside his home:

"You've crossed the line, ignored the root—

No law takes hold without the Newt."

But Rooster called from canyon deep—

He stirred the Stags from armored sleep.

With boots that cracked the myrtle floor,

They doubled down and marched for more.

"My claw brings calm," the Rooster cried,

"These marches make the wrong side right!

When nests rebel, I must restore—

What good is law if I ignore?"

The forest blazed with rolling smoke,

As tear-gas clouds through branches broke.

The creatures scattered, young and old—

While Rooster's grip grew fierce and bold.

From Dallas plains to Chicago's den,

The woodland cry spread once again.

In every grove from coast to coast,

The smaller beasts raised freedom's ghost.

Then Mayor Bass, a steady Doe,

Declared the night must cease and slow:

"From eight till dawn, no paw may roam—

Stay safe, stay still, protect your home."

Four thousand Stags now stomp the ground,

Seven hundred Sea-Hawks wheel around.

The Rooster boasts with puffed-up chest:

"My force will crush this wild unrest!"

But still the creatures will not yield,

Though curfews mark each battle field.

They know their woods, they know their rights—

And gather strength through longest nights.

Then Lantern the Firefly, small and wise,

Glowed softly through the smoky skies.

"A force unfledged will dim the right—

True safety shines from shared, not might."

The critters stirred from glade to den:

"He guards us from our voices when?"

They buzzed and barked from branch to glen—

"This isn't peace—it's power again!"

So Newt climbed up to Thistle Court,

Where mossy judges weigh and sort.

He raised a scroll with calm dissent:

"No Rooster's rule can trump consent."

But Rooster smirked and preened his plume:

"A win right here will set the loom.

If I can snatch this Ridge today,

Then every branch must bend my way."

The trees stood still, the skies grew tight,

But roots recalled what once was right.

Through curfewed streets and armored lines,

The forest etched its bold designs.

From ridge to root, the whispers grew:

"We're not the few—we are the true."

Though Stags may march and Hawks may soar,

The woods remember what they're for.

The forest didn't charge with roar—

It rooted deep and held the floor.

Through smoke and storm, through night and day,

It found a hundred stubborn ways.

For power perched without the right

Will face the dawn's unwavering light.

And trees that bend will not be broke—

The forest speaks through wind and smoke.

**Moral Rhyme**

A crown imposed without the say

Will wither where the roots hold sway.

But those who guard the woodland's call

Must stand together—or they fall.