The raccoons started clapping. The weasel sniffled with pride. Even the chipmunks stopped giggling and started chanting, “Be pre-pared! Be pre-pared!”
The raccoons exchanged nervous glances. The weasel whispered, “But who’s the target?”
“We’ve been small-time,” Vernon said, spitting a toothpick into the creek. “Knocking over bird feeders. Stealing picnic baskets. But that ends tonight. We’re going to pull the biggest score this forest has ever seen.” be prepared hoodwinked song
In the shadow of the old wooden bridge that led into the heart of the forest, a wiry squirrel named Flick sat hunched over a stolen acorn cap. He wasn’t eating. He was listening.
Flick raised a tiny paw. “Um. Question. Have you met Red? She’s like… a ninja in a hoodie. She outran a pack of wolves last spring. On roller skates.” The raccoons started clapping
The chipmunks started humming a jaunty tune. Flick wrote: “Phase four? We’ve never reached Phase three in any plan ever.”
Vernon pointed a claw toward the distant clock tower of the woodland town. “The Schnitzelhausen Annual Baking Competition is tomorrow. First prize: a solid gold rolling pin and enough cash to buy our own mountain. But here’s the thing—we don’t bake. We steal .” Be pre-pared
But for now, under the bridge, the gang sang their song, off-key but full of hope. And Flick, the squirrel who kept the records, wrote one final note: