He is very beautiful, my friend now;
he has the shiniest fur in the whole forest,
and eyes that in the dark of night
flash like ice from on high.
He loafs about, talking on the phone
to his girlfriend, passing the time of day;
he tells her all that he does, and thinks, and feels,
and also he listens, intelligently,
to the amusing stories she has to tell.
And there are so many episodes,
from the mosquitoes’ ball last summer,
to the recent soirée of sticky leeches,
that his mind wanders and he slowly stretches
in the sun, which tends to accentuate his wrinkles.
I climb upthen through his wooliness, and stay
there, in admiration of such silken harmonies;
through the wire-less whisperings, that I hardly follow,
I collect my little honey, and I’m happy.