Old Mr. ‘Possum is a garbageman Who quietly works his appointed nightly rounds Unappreciated as he tidies this And cleans up that, all without any fuss
The other animals don’t seem to like him much For his wobbling, waddling walk, his untidiness His pointy nose, his all-draggledy tail And his awkward shape like a loaf of oaf
But when he lifts his eyes to the queen of the skies He knows that to her he is a knight in disguise