Taking the last sip from the dainty cup, the wanderer went off with his trusted bag inlay.
Skipping and tripping through the dirt road, happy and content, the wind would whisper to the trees what he has to say;

Little Mister Mushroom,
Underneath a tree,
I look at you
And you look at me.

You grow from the grass
In a single night
With your round, round hat
And your head so white.

...

Little Mister Mushroom
What would I do
If you were I
and I were you?

- An excerpt from A Mushroom Poem by James K. Baxter