Booting of the Schrii

He pulled a turnip from the ground
And hoisted it up high,
And upon that tuberous root, he vowed
To lick the astral Schrii.

Schrii, you know, are an awful lot,
And have no care for right.
They would as likely serve you raw,
As wish to you goodnight.

So, with belt pulled snug, he marched away,
Stretching up to four-feet tall.
He went to do the thing that’s right,
Or nevermore do at all.

The Schrii he met on the astral plain,
And attacked them tooth and root.
The turnip smashed with his first hit,
So he had to use his boot.

First right, then left, and then right again,
He wielded it round and round.
So ferocious that you’d hardly see
His stocking-foot off the ground.

With only one leg to stand on,
The other he held waist high,
He pummeled the foe to submission—
He booted the awful Schrii.

You might think it was the turnip
Or the boot he used so well,
But the thing that bested the foemen
Was his unshod-footy smell.