Through fields of grey I make my way
Along the barren path.
The people watching me float by
Say I am a giraffe.

Deluded are they, all, the lot,
They laugh at me because my neck
Is three feet tall and when I walk,
I look a nervous wreck.

My seven arms are metres long,
Like tentacles and spikes.
My forty legs are awkward more,
Especially when riding bikes!

I’m a freak, but I don’t care
‘Cause I can fly all through the air
With wings like mine that are pink and green;
I fly so quick, I’m rarely seen!

And now I tread this barren trail
Where nothing walks, not even a snail,
And as the sun begins to burn
My arms, I hope for hail,

To storm right down from high the air,
From little purple clouds;
To wash the smell from my arm pits,
And thunder to boom loud.

Yet nothing comes, the heat gets more,
And sweat is gushing to the floor
And acid-like it burns my flesh
Till it is cut and raw.

I hope and hope, then hope again
For coolness, peace, and cease of pain,
But, as it is for freaks like I,
The pain won’t end. I scream out high:

“Help! Oh yelp! Oh deary me!
I’m looking for some place to hide,
Some shade, a bush, a little hut,
But I am burning in my rut.”

As the day burns on and on
I walk past people, towns and homes,
And as my sweat does pour and pour,
It acid-like dissolves my bones.


© 2000 Matt Everett