My Lion-hearted Friend Edgar
The tiger hunting in the dusk
Smells not of talcum, only musk;
And, once she's ripped her victim's flesh,
Which lesser beasts would just eat fresh,
She'll wish she'd had a rusk
Hyenas scavenging at dawn
Don't disturb a tranquil lawn
When lizards linger in the sun
They rarely peck a currant-bun
Unlike the cheeky currawongs
In silky tights and skimpy thongs
Whose only goal in life is fun
Elephants sun-bathing at noon
To me does not mean a boon
The weasel sneakily attacks
The pumas' nose, and sides, and backs:
And greedily devours the bits
Where customary reason fits
The true philosophy of snacks
Which, so the legend rightly says,
They only know in down-town Fez
and meanwhile the slug just softly sits
In twenty squishy sluggy bits,
Unlike the ant, who scurries past
With things to do from first to last -
Such as milking their pet aphids
Into cups the size of geese,
Unless they're stopped by the police
Thus, in creation, all agree
That buzzy thing could be a bee
"Go be a bee!", my dear mum said.
Then she went promptly off her head.
Her doctors said: "Drink lots of tea--
Hot, quite liquid, and sticky!"
they sedated her and strapped her into bed
With a lamb in her arms and goat at her head;
she rocked back and forth and spoke to herself
of faries and Santa and Microsoft wealth.
And so, by the doctors, it came to be said
That here there was a savant true
To thump both black and blue.
The tiger, basking in the sun
Knows that he is No. 1 -
As Pat McGoohan says "I am
The one and only honeyed ham"
And, saying this, he draws his gun:
He stands and shoots, but naught befalls
Save echo's muttering retreat - sublimate walls:
The lizard bathing in the dew
Has had enough of me and you!
| Contributors: | fester, Apsley, Grayman, dkb, Beefy, melody, dan, englishqueen, L. Wallace. |
| Poem finished: | 8th May 2002. |