I’m a gentle giraffe, who lives in a zoo
But I don’t seem the same as the others all do.
When I was born, did they make a bungle
Which means that I’m not like my kin of the jungle?
My brothers all shun me, like I’ve a disease,
Since I’m not very tall and I can’t reach the trees.
But there’s some sort of pride in the way that I’m dressed:
I haven’t got spots on my fur, like the rest;
I’m sure they look down on me, with high, haughty scowls
But I’ll counter back with some gruff, grudging growls
So they’ll cotton on, as I’m raging and roaring
That I’m not a creature they should be ignoring,
For my teeth are more sharp than the rest of the bunch
And I like to eat meat and not leaves for my lunch.
Another strange feature I’d like to explain
Is my neck is all covered in hair, in the main;
It’s always been like it, since I was a cub
But is that a reason to give me a snub?
I think I’ll break off and stop for a pause
To think up another short, sharp, clever clause
About my appearance, which is quite a tale
Which I lash in anger, but I’m sure that I fail
To describe myself fully, although I’ve been trying.
Do you think that, possibly, I could be lion?
~C Richard Miles~
