Out in the bush
under big dusty skies,
Digby the wombat
can't quite believe his eyes.

He spots something strange
and he stops in his tracks —
little brown CUBES
in a neat little stack!

"Dice? Tiny boxes?
A chocolate attack?"
He picks one up, sniffs it —
then puts it RIGHT back.

He squints through his glasses,
then picks up his pace.
"Who's POOPING?! I'll FIND them!
I'm hot on the chase!"

He toddles over to Kiki.
"I'm building a case!
Have YOU seen these cubes
all over the place?"

"I've SEEN them!" says Kiki.
"They're all down the track!
But don't look at ME —
mine are round, not a stack!"

Next, Digby finds Bruce
half-asleep in a tree.
"Wake UP! Have you seen cubes?"
"Mate, don't bother me."

Bruce yawns and points down.
"Mine are OVALS, not square."
Then rolls over slowly,
like Digby's not there.

He finds Sheila the emu
and holds up a cube.
"CUBES?! How DARE you!
Now THAT is just rude!

My poops are big SPLATS —
they're a MESS, not a stack!"
She takes off in a huff
without a look back.

No matter where he goes,
there are cubes far and near!
On ledges and logs
and on rocks, they APPEAR!

They're stacked up so neatly,
not one out of place.
Digby scratches his head.
"I can't CRACK this case!"

He slumps on a rock
with a heavy deep sigh.
"I'll NEVER solve this"
he says with teary eyes.

But then… his belly
goes GRUMBLE and GROAN.
And Digby feels something
he might not have KNOWN…

He waddles behind a bush,
quick as can be —
he squats and he pushes
and then… DO YOU SEE?!

Out pop little CUBES,
one by one in a row!
DIGBY's the pooper!
HE didn't even know!

"So it's ME! I'm the pooper!
But wait — they're not flat.
Why are my poops all SQUARE?
Answer me THAT?"

A wombat's insides
do something quite funny —
they SQUEEZE poop into cubes
as it moves through their tummy!

"But WHY are they cubes
and not round like a ball?"
Round poops would roll off!
But a cube? Not at ALL!

Digby stacks them on rocks
and he sniffs them all day.
"I can't see much," he grins,
"but my NOSE knows the way!"

Bruce, Kiki, and Sheila
all stop and they STARE.
"You build little TOWERS?
On rocks EVERYWHERE?!"

Digby laughs and sets
his glasses just right:
"I'm really an ARTIST.
My cubes are a SIGHT!"

The sun dips down low
through the whispering trees,
and Digby curls up
in the soft evening breeze.

The case has been cracked —
and he's actually GLAD.
Now he's an artist,
not just any old lad!

He smiles to himself
as the first stars appear.
The cubes on the rocks,
they say, "Digby lives here."