"In forests soft with whispers, where quiet mountains sleep,
A gentle voice begins to paint the dreams that nature keeps.
He talks of happy little trees that never feel alone,
And shows the world that every brush can carve a world of its own.

He teaches calm and courage when colours choose to stray,
No panic in the chaos, just a new path on the way.
A stroke becomes a river, a dab becomes the sky,
And any little smudge can be a chance to let hope try.

He paints with gentle laughter, with kindness in his art,
Proving every masterpiece begins inside the heart.
And though the canvas changes with every line and gloss,
The peace within the painter lasts, a gift from Bob Ross.

So here stands this creation, where pixels meet the stream,
A mix of old and playful made from calm and childhood dream.
A tribute in bright colours to a soul who taught us this
That art is just a moment where the world feels filled with bliss."

"There once was a family at noon,

Who admired a “lovely bright moon.”

Till a laser beam flashed,

And the pavement was smashed,

As they embraced their impending Doom"

The village match was finely poised, the scoreline tight and neat,
The bowler strutted down the run with victory at his feet.
The batsman braced, the crowd leaned in, the moment growing grave,
When suddenly the sky lit up like someone misbehaved.

A saucer dipped above the pitch, its beam a glaring streak,
And up went Terry, finest fielder, mid-catch of the week.
He vanished with a startled yelp, his cap left on the grass,
While players cried that losing him was frankly bang out of class.

The umpire paused, then calmly said with quintessential grace,
That play must carry on at once despite the missing face.
And though the match resumed that day with ten men on the rover,
No soul forgot the fateful beam in that unforgettable final over.