Down in the valley of Pickle Green,
where the bumpy grass grows strong and tall,
and wind whistles through
with a scent so sweet and vinegary,
blending in like bi-level chameleon,
and waddling along near the dirt,
is the much fabled member
of the mammalian family,
the Pickleotupus Moster.
Zig-zagging with his furry belly,
just inches from the ground,
anyone lucky enough to spy him,
would wonder if he knew his
or had become drunk on fermented crabapples,
but if you could pan out
with your wide camera lens,
you would see the clever creature
eluding a very strange man,
in a tin foil hat,
scanning the ground for any sign
that the storybooks or tabloids were right.
He pushes before him
a razor scooter
with a wheel of old sharp cheddar cheese
taped to it’s front
in hopes of attracting
this wily beast,
and most curious of all,
having once read that the mating call
of the Pickleotupus Monster sounded so
he shouts in high pitched tones,
over and over.
For a brief moment,
he becomes hopeful,
when he suddenly hears
a hissing sound from behind.
But the stories never told him,
and nor will any stories he tell,
for Pickleotupus Monster spit
travels very far,
and is fatal.
All I know is that Dani O, winner of one of our Poetry Smackdowns, wrote this tasty little hallucination. I think she may have been an early afternoon arrival the second Saturday, so this might have been written for one of the little tykes enjoying Kids Fringe events that day. ("Supercalifragilistic" HAD to be a request word.) Either that, or it was the other end of the spectrum, because it's just the sort of title somebody would request if they were tripping their nuts off.
And now I've got the "Hiphoppapotamus" song from Flight of the Conchords stuck in my head.