SONG OF THE BROKEN GIRAFFE

SONG OF THE BROKEN GIRAFFE
By Bob Kaufman

I have heard the song of the broken giraffe, and sung it . . .
the frozen sun has browned me to a rumor and slanted my
navel.
I have consorted with vulgar crocodiles on banks
of lewd rivers.
Yes, it is true, God has become bad, from centuries
of frustrations.
When I think of all the girls I never made love to, I am socked.
Every time they elect me President, I hide in the bathroom.
When you come, bring me a tourniquet for our wounded moon.
In an emergency, I can rearrange your beautiful wreckage
With broken giraffe demolitions and lovely colorless
explosions.
Come, you sexy Ferris Wheel, ignore my illustrated
bathing suit.
Don’t laugh at my ignorance, I may be a great
bullfighter, ole’.
I wanted to compose a great mass, but I couldn’t kneel
properly.
Yes, they did tempt me with airplanes, but I wouldn’t bite,
no sir-ee.
Unable to avoid hospitals, I still refused to become a doctor.
They continued to throw reason, but I failed
in the clutch again.
It’s true, I no longer use my family as a frame of reference.
The clothing they gave me was smart but not good
for train wrecks.
I continue to love despite all the traffic-light difficulties.
In most cases, a sane hermit will beat a good big man.
We waited in vain for the forest fire, but the bus was late.
All night we baked the government into a big mud pie.
Not one century passed without Shakespeare calling me
dirty names.
With all those syllables, we couldn’t write a cheerful
death notice.
The man said we could have a birthday party if we
surrendered.
Their soldiers refused to wear evening downs on guard duty.
Those men in the basement are former breakfast-food
salesman.
We had a choice of fantasies, but naturally we were greedy.
If they leave me alone, I will become a fallen-leaf tycoon
Mater Peter Rabbit will forgive us our trespasses;
one never knows.
At the moment of truth we were dancing a minuet and
missed out.
After the nuns went home, the Pope through a big masquerade
ball.
When the hemlock turned rancid, I returned the cup at once,
yes sir-ee.
Hurry, the barometer’s falling; bring a storm before
it’s too late.
We share reserve evenings for murder or television,
whichever is convenient.
Yes, beyond a shadow of a double, Rumpelstiltskin
was emotionally disturbed.

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