|
On a day not unlike a
day like today,
Morton the Elephant
was wandering astray
When he stopped at
the place where most elephants play.
“What’s that smell I
smell?
It smells like hell.
Some liquidy liquid I
see?
Or gelatinous gel,
could it be?
“A pungent aroma, no
question of that.
Like a spent box of
litter
From the Cat in the
Hat.
“What’s that smell I
smell
And where is it from?
Does it live near the
bottom
Of some opened-up
drum?
“Maybe hazardous
waste - it stinks!
I’ll run quicker than
quick.
Better healthy and
safe
Than queasy and sick.
“I’ll run and I’ll
run
For a mile or two.
Now stop. Whew!
But wait, I smell it
here too!”
Yes, all through the
valley
And up on the hill,
A fog filled with
malignant, gasified swill.
Into the river, the
lake and the slough,
Into the ocean and
the swimming pool, too,
Went a stream of
stinkodorous, nastified stew.
Stopping next to a
dumpster with an unusual glow,
Morton sat and he
thought for a minute or so.
He thought and he
thought ‘til his brain began pounding,
Sonic booms from
above it was sort of like sounding.
“What a mess!” Horton
cried. “What a mess, what a blight!
What a miserable,
wretched and piteous sight!
Why it’s man’s own
creations which make day seem like night,
Water taste wicked
and soil glow bright.”
So he called up the
President without thinking twice.
Politicians did not
scare him (unless they were mice).
“Hey President,” he
cackled in a most unceremonious way,
“I’ve discovered
somewhat of a problem today.
“The problem to me
seems incredibly clear,
And in fact it’s the
only thing clear around here.
Which leads to the
reason of just why I’m calling.”
(By now the Prez
thought that Morton was stalling.)
But he blundered and
blustered and the story ensued
Of how the poor earth
was becoming unglued,
Or glued up or glued
over, or however it goes.
The point was the
planet was on its last throes.
“Enough,” spat the
President, then he coughed and he wheezed,
Then he sputtered and
muttered, hiccupped and sneezed.
“Congress sold out,
so don’t blame it on me
If the earth is a bag
of virulent tea.”
Just then Morton
paused, he stopped and he sniffed.
A huge malconcoction,
some of which he’d just whiffed,
Had escaped from its
stacks and was moving adrift.
“What is THAT smell
that I smell?
Why it fills up the
sky!
A putricumulus cloud
of impending doomulus size!”
Morton flung down the
phone while the President babbled,
And he ran like all
get out, he scribbled ... then scrabbled
To get out of the way
of this vaporized crud,
But he tripped and he
fell with an elephant’s THUD.
“Oh drat,” sniveled
Morton, “this is no way to go.
To be snuffed by the
puffs of some malignant inferno.”
Then over poor Morton
the cloud made its descent,
And it killed him
completely … 100 percent.
|
