When we were kids, my brother and sisters and friends were delighted when a load of topsoil was delivered to backfill the edges of our new house that was in the final stages of construction. We would run to the top of the mound of dirt and then challenge each other to push us down and replace us, with taunts of  “I’m the king of the castle, and you’re the dirty rascal.” (It was a good thing my mother didn’t hear us talking like that.)

Crispin is the king of the castle here, but he has no challengers at the moment. The new load of firewood is perfect for him as he snacks on one of the walnuts he has stashed away.

I’m king of this fine castle,

The view up here is great,

I don’t get any hassle,

To see how much I ate.

 

In case of any danger,

Of hawk or hungry owl,

Or any other stranger,

Who’d like to make me howl,

 

I’ll pop down in the wood pile,

And hide until they leave.

That way I’m sure I could smile,

No worry that I’ll grieve.