A hippo named Horace
One day
Ran away
For his own space
That was a safe
Wooden hippo place.
He would have got burnt
But now I can't.
He's decanted.
Now can't be counted.
One day I'll find that
Horace the hippo....
Or I'll eat my hat
And heat my boat...
When on my fire he'll go....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem