Freshets, dikin’ freshets—
when ramparts hold, snarling farmers are in pique.
Little streams become large lakes within a week.
Farmers pouting when there’s damming creek to creek;
farmers loud kvetching, damning streak, blue streak.

Friendly, they’re not friendly,
and they rare to blow poked holes, stoke water leak.
It’s to vanquish castor damage that they seek.
Get ’em out, those pests that’s damming creek to creek.

Oh they’d love to fin’lly rout ’em,
creep creatures that ain’t meek.
No, nothing would thrill them quite as much
as blasts releasing creeks.

Get TNT sticks and stick ’em
’midst slick timbers slippery-sleek.
No, there’s nothing they’d enjoy as much
as blasts freeing the creeks.

Go on a blasting spree:
that’s just what these farmers do,
hope harm will ensue.
They make a boo-boo, then. . .

. . .tethered, Nikes tethered—
sly branches sneak through strong strings, whose lacing’s weak.
Inexorably fuses fume; cordite reeks.
They go out together blasting. . .
howls from central cast’ing.
Round two: sever stands, re-dam the creeks.