I’m cooking Boo Boo, bear that I know,
as osso buco, which I love so.
I am indifferent to chants of “Shame!”
for cooking Boo Boo; he’ll taste like game.

He once was moving from there to here.
Friends are reproving, “Yogi, we all fear
your huge indifference; you’ve clearly changed
by cooking Boo Boo…appears deranged.”

Fry, I won’t fry to get my treats delight.
“Lunch is a ghastly habit!” say my friends as they rear from sight.

I’m thinking of him a different way.
Oh, I still love him, but as flambé.
Soon he’ll be vittles, great chow-down fare.
Post-cooking Boo Boo, I’ll have a share.

“Fie, Yogi, fie!” friends screech at me in fright.
“Shun, please, that nasty gambit; instead eat fish you’ve speared tonight.”

I’m cooking Boo Boo, as cuisine haute.
I have eschewed huge feedings on oats.
Then I diligently start the flame
for cooking Boo Boo. He was so tame.