The press had gathered round
    the lost man had been found
        And such a tale he had to tell!

Lost amongst the trees
    just a wildlife refugee
        were there hidden horrors in the dell?

Bears!  He cried,  Big ones!
    And each one had a gun!
        They saw me and they tried to kill!

For I know their plans;
    They'll drive us off our lands
        And make our world a living Hell!

Any minute now,
    you'll see! Two hundred! Three!
        Marching down upon the mill!

And the press just smiled,
    the poor man did not beguile,
        destined only for a padded cell

They went back to their cars
    sighing at the same old wars
        longing for bears with all their will

Wouldn't it be great
    What a strange twisting of fate
        If the man after all weren't quite so ill?