O lillo armadillo
You’d make one lousy pillow.
I wonder if your bony girdle
Is related to the turtle?
O lillo armadillo,
Coming up over the hillo,
Better move faster,
Else you’ll wind up as roadkillo.
Subterranean insect feeder,
Are you teetering on the brinct
Of becoming extinct?
Alas, adieu, fair anteater.
Of you some people are full.
When another bull talks cheaply,
Do you say he’s talking peopley?
It must be ruffalo
Being a buffalo.
Being hunted for your hide
Must surely hurt your pride
And make you snort and puff,
“Enough is enough!”
Look at you, caribou.
You’re all dressed up, mon frereibou.
Such dapper horns and hairibou–
Why do you where what you wearibou?
Would you care to elaborate
Or am I gravely tempting fate?
Could it be a secret rendezvous
Behind the reeds at the pondezvous?
Would you like to shareibou
The when, who or whereibou?
A snapshot of your tryst by the water
Would make such sizzling tabloid fodder.
Cunning card-copping cheetah,
Always the chip leadah,
Play by the rules
And quit taking us for fools
Or you’ll soon be seeing the streetah.
Cold, calculating cheetah,
Fast and loose odds beatah,
My patience is thinning
Toward your penchant for winning
And your time grows short indeedah.
Any verse about a duck
Ought be filled with laughter and luck.
For ducks live a life of revelry–
Easy and playful and utterly carefree.
No matter rain or shine,
A duck’s mood is sublime.
Its heart is light as a feather
In any place or weather.
When one listens to a pond of ducks–
Their quacks and quirks and chuckles and clucks–
One may perceive a hidden rhyme,
Heretofore unknown, and in perfect time.
The chorus of their voices,
So steady in meter,
As led by a maestro
But with no apparent leader.
Yes, any verse about a duck
Ought be filled with laughter and luck.
For if such verse be music to the ear,
T’would be a shame to end it badly.
Dingy yellowish dingo
Reclining by a billabong,
So many are dying to know–
We’ve wondered for so long:
Is it true that you have rabies
And a predilection for babies?
How sad for you, poor dodo bird,
That your name is so oft slurred.
Do you wish to remain anonymous
Since your name’s become synonymous
With a dunce or a yutz or a nerd?
Sleek, white ermine,
I could wish to own a garment
Composed of your fur–
You’re such a divine varmint.
Alas, I’d be in violation
Of some ethical rationalization;
Unless the experts determine
You to be a pestilent vermin.
The elephant is a pachyderm
With long tusks and a trunk.
Its musculature is massive and firm
And It trods with a clunk.
You claim this data is irrelevant?
Try telling that to an elephant.
O sleek, tenacious ferret,
You’ve no choice but to bear it:
Your association with fact-finding
And reputation for detail minding.
No worries, you’re name’s not notorious.
In fact, I’d say its quite glorious.
Mister City Frog, lives in a clog,
Choked and smoked by the fumes of a smog.
Mister Country Frog, lives in a log,
Cloaked and soaked by the mist of a bog.
Says Mister City to Mister Country,
“It may be true my city has but one tree,
But why not bring the family by today
And see if you like it well enough to stay?”
Says Mister Country to Mister City,
“You can keep your one-tree city.
I prefer things wet and soggy
For my wife and pollywoggy.”
Grumpy, griping grouse,
Be glad you’re not a louse.
When someone is ill
And feeling rather lousy,
You’ll soon have them saying,
“I’ve never felt this grousy.”
And how are we this day, dear hippo?
Are we in the mood to take a dip-o?
Are we feeling temperamental?
I hope we’re calm and gentle.
Massive, amphibious river horse,
Only a fool would ride you, of course.
A poor chap I knew who tried to last September,
The nation’s top surgeons have yet to re-member.
Sacred ibis, wading in the water,
Keen-eyed, bona fide, crayfish spotter,
Were ancestral ibises
Worshiped by Egyptian tribeses?
Did they laud them as a god?
Did the ibises find it amusing–
All that sycophantic schmoozing?
Crested, scaly iguana,
Let’s head to the day spa, you wanna?
I would not dare to state
That you need to exfoliate,
But let’s start with a facial and sauna.
Crafty, conniving jackal,
You dine on carrion and cackle.
When considering your diet,
What you call steak tartare,
My stomach grows disquiet.
You take things way too far!
Koala, Kangaroo, Kiwi
To the koala, kiwi and kangaroo:
Is there some unspoken, unwritten taboo
Against discovering an animal specific
To your region of the south pacific
And breaking tradition with the letter “k”
And naming some species with a “c” someday?
Poised and grinning lynx,
What is the meaning of your winks?
Is it your way of saying,
“I’m thinking of buffeting–
And you’ll do nicely, me thinks.”
Alright Ms. Llama, let’s take it from the top;
And your prima donna attitude has got to stop.
We’re paying you to act–
To have talent, to be exact.
Calm down, Ms. Llama, all your drama is scary.
Would it kill you to be a bit less contrary?
False eyelashes and a flashy car
Do not make one a superstar.
The lightning-fast mongoose is known to cause
The cobra de capelo to bemoan its jaws;
Yet although this ferocious little fighter
Has a taste for the venomous viper,
He does not particularly care
For cobra cuisine or fare.
He has been known, though, to giggle
When doing the love jiggle.
It would not suit me
To serve a newt with chutney.
Try as you may to embellish
Him with garnish or relish.
Sauté him, if you will,
In butter and coriander.
You’ll soon discover he still
Tastes like salamander.
The otter is patient and upright in tongue
When teaching and guiding her untrained young.
Why, just the other day I was astonished to hear
A mother otter telling her daughter dear:
“You are not free to do as you please;
You’re free to do what you oughter.”
Gazing up I spy you, ledge-perched pigeon,
Might you change your trajectory a smidgeon?
Better not be topping me with your droppings;
Else you’re gonna get religion, pigeon.
Roving icefarer, with plumage black and white,
Your waterproof birthday suit fascinates my sight.
Spheniscidae, Spheniscus, as you’re technically called,
Your aquatic agility leaves me enthralled.
Experts call your wings vestigial aberrations.
Pooh-POOH on their so-called astute observations.
Kings and captains, aristocrats and skippers,
Would give rings and rubies for tuxedos with flippers.
Quietly quivering quail,
I know your fears so wail.
It’s open season
But you see no reason
To give one iota
About helping a hunter
Meet his quota.
You wonder if a bullet will be your undoing
As you quietly crouch just out of viewing;
But a sportsman too closely lurks,
So your head quivers and quirks.
Take heart and quell your dismay–
You’ll make a brilliant display.
Mysterious harbinger, macabre and black,
“Back, you foul creature,” again I cry, “Back!”
Inquired I of the omen,
“Am I soon to see the coffin?”
Dryly quoth the raven,
“You need to get out more often.”
Your profile is preposterous.
If you want to look classy
You might try rhinoplasty
And chisel down your probosceros.
Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel,
Instead of quarreling, do you quirrel?
In your cramped little huts
When you drive each other nuts,
Instead of snarling, do you snurrel?
The tortoise moves slowly
According to human standard.
Yet though this creature be lowly,
It clearly should not be slandered.
For when did you last see a man who could hack
The demands of carrying his house on his back?
Magical white unicorn,
You give me pause for remorse.
Because of the horn
With which you were born,
I’m forbidden to call you a horse.
Because she excels at leaping hounds quickly,
She’s come to be renowned for operating slickly.
Yet, my sly, vindictive vixen,
I’ve hear your ire could use some fixin’.
Vile, villainous vulture,
Void of refinement and culture,
If you weren’t so hideous
I might find you piteous.
You’re certainly no cause for exulture.
Marsupial wombat, you love to burrow
When inclement weather makes your brow furrow.
So if you poke your head up today
And find the skies much too gray,
Take heart: there’s always tomurrow.
I say, your name’s analogous
To jerboa for a rat
Or chiropteran for a bat.
Zoologists are all agog
Over nothing but a clawed frog.
I’m told that you have a knack
For flapping your gums
With all of your chums
And members of your pack.
If that truly is the case,
If your prattling is incessant
Then you’re anything but quiescent
And Tibet must be a noisy place.
The zebu is an ox content
To work for its masters in the Orient.
It sports long horns and a dewlap–
That’s what they call its fancy neck flap.
If I had to spend all day everyday
At work in the rice paddies with no play,
This beast of burden of eastern Asia
Would develop a bad case of aphasia.