“A Capybara goes on vacation on the isle of man”

A capybara named Carl, so stout and so spry,  
Decided, one morning, to give it a try—  
A trip on a plane, across river and strand,  
For a grand little holiday: Isle of Man.

With a suitcase of sunscreen and carrot buffet,  
He hopped the first ferry and set on his way.  
The seagulls all gawked as he waddled ashore,  
His nose in the breezes, his toes free to explore.

He bicycled round with his helmet askew,  
Through Douglas’s streets where the salt breezes blew.  
Past castles and glens under storm-silver skies,  
He waved to the bikers—their engines surprised.

Carl found a small cottage beside Port Erin Bay,  
Where soft grasses lilted and children would play.  
He built sandcastles sturdy and stomped through the foam,  
Sending postcards of sunsets to friends far from home.

He bathed in Glen Maye, ‘neath a moss-laden fall,  
Made friends with a puffin so plucky and small.  
He tiptoed through heather, quite giddy and free,  
And sampled the kippers with strong milky tea.

From Peel to old Laxey, with trams humming by,  
He let out a chuckle, content with a sigh.  
On the Isle of Man, Carl found joy without measure—  
A capybara’s vacation, slow-paced and full of pleasure.

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