And off, off we go!
The big one’s taken me out,
out for a stroll again.
I’m strapped in—no escape.
I’ve tried crying twice before,
but this hippo is a stern one,
not like the others—Yea, I’ll say!
O don’t ask why I won’t. . .
Don’t you know the humiliation?
And the smell. Then that wretched powder!
No, I think I’d rather remain strapped.
Here’s one. A fat bald jerk,
skimming the New York Times.
And she’s stopped, right next to
gelatinous guts galore
pouring out of his brown pants,
and the red-plaid suspenders
snapping this prize of a specimen together.
Why, just across us sits one fine pair of pasty twins
. . . and sitting all alone—O I’m so thirsty!
It’s all processed-and-pasteurized now-a-days,
you’d think she’d go the organic route. But no…
All that whole food she buys, “Is it organic?”
“Is it organic?” that’s the household mantra.
O I feel them pulling,
pulling toward me— No!
Not the plastic! I’m so thirsty!
These blonde ones, how they bend and gush
right over me— I always twinkle my little greens
just for them— just hold me . . . close,
real close— aren’t I soft?
So are you my tootsie roll— O, I’m so thirsty!
What? What does she want from me?
Move hippo! You’re blocking my view!
Of course it wasn’t me! What did you expect from,
Mr. Gelatin? Rosemary?
Oh, so we’re moving again,
why don’t you stroll over to –
The Devil! Some shirt-n-tie’s makin’ his move!
It’s too late, my blonde bunny’s smiling. Thief!
What is this? I don’t want it!
I want the real thing – do I look like a cow!?
I’d even settle for your banjos toots.
Oh no! Pigeon-feeder three O’clock!
Hurry, Hurry! Don’t! Don’t stop!!
O not again—it’s too late.
Ugh! Her wrinkles remind me of my feet.
Hands off! What did the lady of the house say?
“Do not let strangers touch!”
What, is it a class thing?
Payback for the silver-spoon?
I’ll give you a thousand silver-spoons
for one good old-prole squeeze.
Yuck! Now I smell like Wonder bread.
Where are we going?
Oh not there again.
What is with you and the zoo?
The whole place stinks of monkey.
It’s the Rhino calling you, isn’t it?
All those little crisis children running around.
Last week one was poking me with a stick!
They run yell and jump more than the monkeys!
Tell me, why do they insist on showing their tongues?
I bat like Babe— first base just doesn’t do it for me.
I’m so thirsty…
