He hadn't been an elephant last night,
but now he sees a trunk swing past his face.
And are those tusks? His ears flap-flap in fright;
he screeches loudly, tramples, breaks a vase.
His clumsy legs stampede him to the wall,
then fumble-turn and crash him through his bed;
he hears his parents padding down the hall,
and tries to rise but falls to his knees instead.
"All right there, son?" his worried folks exclaim.
He wants to reassure them, but his shriek
reminds them of long treks to Mozambique.
Experienced stalkers, hunters of big game,
they corner him and gore his hide with spears
and keep his tusks to mount as souvenirs.