The Man with a Hippo on His Head
There once was a man (quite respectable, too)
Who awoke with a problem he hadn’t a clue:
A baby hippo,
Quite small for a hippo,
Was sitting up top like a hat made of goo.
It snorted politely and yawned with a plop,
Then wiggled its toes and refused to get off.
“I’m late for my tea!”
Cried the man, urgently,
But the hippo just drooled and went plopity-plop.
He tried hats and ladders and standing quite still,
He tried reasoning gently and shouting with will.
But the hippo said “No,”
In a voice very slow,
And munched on his hair like a casual meal.
They walked through the town with a wobble and sway,
Past people who stared in a terribly polite way.
“Is it fashion?” they said,
Pointing up at his head,
Or “Perhaps it’s a Tuesday,” then shuffled away.
At last, tired of balance and hippoish weight,
The man sighed, “I suppose this is simply my fate.”
So he bought two new shoes,
One umbrella for snooze,
And a biscuit for hippos (they’re partial to eight).
Now they’re quite the pair, as odd pairs often are:
A man with ambition, a hippo who snores.
And if you should meet them,
Do try not to greet them—
Just nod, and move on, and ask nothing more.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 