Environmental Worries - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Two lions lounged down by the river,
just finishing their zebra liver.
While chewing still, one lion mentioned
that this noon meal, though well-intentioned,
and brought to them by lionesses
was tasty but left many guesses
as to the nature of the flesh.
Of course it had been served quite fresh
but what about the origin,
they knew that zebras and their kin
do graze all over the Savannah
to find their chlorophyll-rich manna.
So far so good, but studies show
much pesticide where grasses grow.
Perhaps a conference was needed
to see that levels which exceeded
the universal lower figures
would automatically be triggers
for full reports, delivered quickly.
One sign would be a rather sickly
and limping, staggering gazelle
they would not hunt what was not well.
The weeks went by, the females came
back from their hunts for jungle game
and often they came empty-pawed
while in their bellies hunger gnawed.
It seems that there were plenty cripples
some great big cows still sucking nipples
and unafraid of hunting beasts
since uninvited to their feasts.
The King was finally fed-up,
he raised his blood-filled skullbone cup
and toasted to a change in tactic
which was in fact a prophylactic
would keep the wolf far from the door,
they'd spare the lame and frail no more
as they were meant to be brought down
said he and placed his silver crown
onto the termite hill nearby
to keep it safe and also dry.
'While additives and pesticides
and even those thalidomides
wreak havoc in our food supply
we must ignore the How and Why
just think, we eat two-legged creatures
and while we like their outer features,
they are so full of chemistry
that you can taste the misery.
So I suggest you girls get busy
I see a zebra, she looks dizzy
don't worry, bring her here of course
I'm hungry, I could eat a horse.'
Comments about Environmental Worries by Herbert Nehrlich
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye