[Martin Elster]

When, to my tufted titmouse
I say, “Sit, mouse!”
she’ll alight on my finger
but, unlike my dog Max, won’t linger.


My Wunderpus photogenicus
is wholly hypoallergenicus,
so I can pet the spotted little varmint
and it won’t do me any harmint.


My spiny lumpsucker,
wearing his best bib and tucker,
grooving at the piscine party, is having a blast
but, since he is out of water, knows deep down the fun won’t last.


My pleasing fungus beetle
will always wheedle
me into giving her a snack of spongy fungi
but she always uses a napkin, so is never grungy.


My pink fairy armadillo,
whose belly is soft as a billow
but whose back is hard as a boulder
is as touchy as a toddler, so I never scold her.


Because my raspberry crazy ants
get under my pants,
driving me as crazy as a bug with itches and twitches,
I have come to trudge about without my socks and britches.


My satanic leaf-tailed gecko,
while statue-like, is an exquisite piece of art deco
but, while scurrying as fast as a flash of lightning,
looks genuinely frightening.


My tasseled wobbegong
will tag along
with me when I go for a swim in the drink
but will slink away if I sink. The fink!


My hellbender
is a ginormous slippery salamander which will blend her
body into the surroundings so I can’t spot her.
For such genius, you have to applaud her.


My chicken turtle
named Myrtle
no doubt tastes like chicken,
but were I forced to eat her, I’d be grief-stricken.


My star-nosed mole,
which can dig a huge hole,
is blessed with twenty-two pink fleshy appendages ringing her schnoz.
“Why?” you ask. Just because!


My blobfish
is a snob fish.
When I talk to her, she turns away.
In fact, she won’t even leave the bottom of the bay.


Were you to lick my ice cream cone worm,
it would affirm
that she is not as tasty as you may have surmised.
Are you surprised?