In the great Northern wood where the Bumbello blows,

Lives a tribe of people that nobody knows.

The vast shady breeze of the pumpalump trees

Carries their tribe-songs throughout their leaves

They’re the bravest of warriors – hardy, but true,

And come in all colors, especially blue.

Legends abound of their fiery breath,

They know honor and courage and even face death.

They’re furry and cuddly, and lovable too,

With loyalty strong, they hold true to you.

A Nemor is generous, gentle, and kind,

A furry exterior, an intelligent mind.

But a Nemor is rare – as rare as can be,

For nobody goes to the pumpalump trees.

Shrouded in mystery, these creatures exist,

Hiding in hollows and living in mist.

~ Mina Marial Nicoli