Slurring at the Elephant in the Room

How many times have we met? I don't have thick skin if I were to come under the needle of a vet; barf would linger on clothes that aren't yet washed down by the hose of a zoo attendant. The span of your ears sweeping back the stench I exude with perspiration, thanks, elephant. My rumbly gut on your gut, your rotund barrel takes us over Niagara Falls. A cold, yet steamy mist can exit rage. A friendliness plummets over me where I stand too drunk to squirm and go visit my girl. I turn and want to unlatch my cage, bar pressing my nose to what might be in store not ready to eat hay nor sleep on the floor, grateful that your prehensile trunk can reach in the fridge and snag a beer.