Jungle Still Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

In the shadow of the moon
reminisced an old raccoon.
Oh, those days when his own dad
went ballistic, later mad.

All because his wife had tired
of her husband's much admired
prowess in their birchwood bed.
News soon came that she was dead
causing junior to become
rather partial to good rum.

Yes, I know, your brows just lifted
as your thinking brain has drifted
to this inconsistency.
Rum for coons? How could this be.

Let me tell you doubting reader
did you know each horny breeder
and their habits day and night?
If you don't, go fly a kite!

How would you, a simple wanker,
small town janitor or banker
be aware of what they do
truly, you don't have a clue.

I have met (though it was risky)
elephants so fond of whiskey
that they owned their jungle still!
They would mix and then distill
eau de vie from fresh ingredients,
getting absolute obedience
from the clan and other critters.

Zebras like their booze with bitters,
all giraffes prefer long straws
and the lions rub their paws
as each Friday, after supper
they shut off the vat of copper
which has heated all the stuff.

Rabbits, birds and mice would puff
on their weeds, anticipating
not their pastime (which is mating)
but the fest where they could sample
jungle juice (supply was ample) .

And their God had long decreed
that there was a real need
to be friendly to each other,
foes be treated like your brother
once a week, when He suspended
killing 'til the orgy ended.

This has been routine for ages
only animals in cages
don't have access to the stuff,
that's why zoo life is so tough.

The raccoon, marked by cirrhosis,
smoke-related silicosis
and the ravages of time,
sat there, sipping gin with lime
then stood up and toppled over
into green and luscious clover.

In the shadow of the moon
killing would start up, too soon.