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Poem	(with apologies to Frederic Taber Cooper) I well recall (and who does not) The circus bill-board hippopotamus, whose wide distended jaws For fear and terror were good cause. That month, that vasty carmine cave, Could munch with ease a Nubian slave; In fact, the bill-board hippopot- amus could bolt a house and lot! Wide opened, that tremendous mouth Obscured three-quarters of the south Side of Schmidt’s barn, and promised me Thrills, shocks, delights and ecstasy. And then, alas! what sad non plus The living hippopotamus! ’Twas but a stupid, sodden lump As thrilling as an old elm stump. Its mouth—unreasonably small— The hippo opened not at all, Or, if it did, it was about As thrilling as a teapot spout. * * * * * The Crimson Junk, by Doris Watt, I’ve read it. Who, I pray, has not? Bill Wastel, by C. Marrow. The Plaid Cowslip. And The Hocking Lee. The Fallow Field, by Sally Loo; The Rose in Chains. I’ve read that too; I’ve read them all for promised treat Of thrills, emotions, tremblings sweet. * * * * * The bill-board hippopotamus It was a wild, uprageous cuss— The real one? Well—Can you recall That it had any mouth at all?
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