STONIECORN

In a land of rainbows, where the skies were so blue, Lived a magical unicorn, Kyle, yes that's true. With a horn quite unique, not silver or gold, But made of pure weed, a tale to be told.

Stoniecorn, they called him, with joy in his prance, Spreading euphoria, a magical dance. Not a sparkly horn, as others would say, But a green delight on his head, in a playful display.

But oh, the poor Kyle, judged from afar, by the unicorns who thought he'd gone too far. "Herb on a horn? Well, that's just absurd!" They'd laugh and they'd mock, with each nasty word.

Through valleys and glades, our Stoniecorn strolled, Facing the judgment, so brave and so bold. He'd puff on his horn, sending clouds to the sky, Leaving the naysayers wondering, oh my, oh my!

"Magical power," he'd say with a grin, "Isn't just rainbows; let the herb do its spin!" For those who can't fathom, the magic he'd weave, Kyle would dance on, with no need to grieve.

So let this be a lesson, a tale from the start, That magic comes in forms, not just fine art. Embrace what makes you, no matter how odd, Be a Stoniecorn dancer, in a meadow so broad.