In a quiet old tree on the edge of the wood,
Lived Finn the shy possum, misunderstood.
He’d whisper “good morning” to birds in a hush,
Then promptly pass out from embarrassment — blush!
His tail would go stiff, his eyes open wide,
At the mere thought of saying “Hello” outside.
A squirrel once waved—he fainted mid-blink,
Fell off a branch and landed in stink.
The raccoons all laughed, “Hey Finn, you’re a ghost!”
(He was pale from a leaf that had waved from its post.)
The frogs invited him out for a jam,
He hid in a stump and texted, “No, fam.”
He once tried a party—one candlelit bash,
Brought acorn cupcakes and sour worm sash.
But when someone clapped, he leapt in a bin,
Stayed there three hours, poor bashful Finn.
Yet shy as he was, with his twitch and his tremble,
He’d rescue a snail or fix a bird’s thimble.
Quiet but kind, with a heart made of gold,
Just don’t yell “Surprise!”—he’ll go cold.
Now forest folk say, “Let Finn do his thing,
He’s brave in his way, not every possum must sing.”
So here’s to the shy, the gentle, the thin-skinned—
Even heroes play dead now and then, like our Finn. 🐾
Therapy Bits 
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