The Poet

Hello everybody, this is Tim again. I'm glad you've come down to hear about the trip I took when you were a holiday, thought you probably the clown, sleepy slim the lion, and jumped on for a holiday house to the North Pole to see what happened to Santa Claus.

You're that switching sound? That's the noise of the wishing star, as it went shooting off to the North Pole, hearing us to see Santa Claus. It was like having all your dreams come true.

This was really fun. Think of having a chance to have adventures with an L3 inches tall. Jump-jumper's never still a minute. Jumping up and down all over the silver cabin inside the star. Being on the way to visit Santa Claus himself.

I'd be able to ask himself not to forget to come to the orphanage on Christmas Eve. I'll be right back in a minute to tell you just what happened. The crown was in the tip of the wishing star.

The heading on its course in Marialidae was knitting a tiny red sweater on two matchsticks for jump jump. Sleepy sit on the lion, they snoring on the floor as usual, and the poet sack gazing out into the sky.

If he now and then he'd write something on the wall beside him, even though he had three notebooks in his lap, a pencil behind each ear, and three more sticking in his hair. He was sighing every now and then, as if something hurt him.

Very often, does the poor feel alright? Because he signs him? Oh yes, it's just his way of getting ideas for a poem. He says that he's got to catch the words that rhyme out of the air like birds.