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Mr. & Mrs. Noah

(Lou & Peter Berryman, ©2001)

You got the sheep?
You got the germs?
You got giraffes?
You got the worms?
You got the scroichahs? You got the scroichahs?
  I got the sheep
I got the germs
I got giraffes
I got the worms
Well . . . eh . . .
Noah, how you gonna populate the world without the canfornikky Lowing of the scroichahs on the edges of the fens? The feelers on their flanks, along their wings and up their antlers Undulating in the chambers of their underwater dens To tell the truth, although they're fairly easy to attract They're hard to catch, they smell like paint, and they're reported to be mean Besides their being fast and dumb, they also are destructive Eating fields of purple loosestrife and exuding gasoline You got the bears? Bats? Moths? Rats? Yunchies? Noah, how you gonna populate the world without the transcendental Yelping of the yunchies in the caverns off Belize? The thinsulated bulges of their oscillating bellies Making ripples in the undertow below your dungarees What good are they, for though they wander glumly to the traps They make a mess, they're self-important and they're hard to get to know Besides their being petulant they roam across the earth Digesting boxcars of plutonium and peeing H2O You got the pigs? Voles? Flies? Moles? Patangas? Noah, how you gonna populate the world without the syncopated Gurgle of patangas by the locks along the Fox? The hypersonic flutter of their subthoracic nubbins Toward pupation in riparian delphiniums and phlox What good are they, for though they do adhere to tanglefoot They are unruly, overbearing, and they feel like lumps of snot They multiply and devastate the zebra mussel population Plus they feed on tsetse flies which bothers me a lot You got the flurgs? Voobs? Keelsh? Koobs? Gadupples? Pepings? Noah, how you gonna populate the world without the voobs and koobs And keelsh and flurgs and pepings and gadupples in the trees? Their symbiotic eloquence while inching up the cambium Descending pentatonically in groups of twos and threes What good are they, for though they have their moments They do nothing but collectively make oxygen where diesel smoke belongs Sporadically ingurgitating PCBs and acid rain They live to eat the editors of long and silly songs

 

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