Penguin dressed in evening best
tuxedo shiny black,
Tell me have you seen my fawn
a sports coat on his back?
Yes, indeed you're society's grace
a small, stout, nobleman,
Waddling like some pompous prince,
some awkward gentleman.
You travel in such circles,
Among Antarctic friends.
I sincerely doubt you know my deer
or where his path begins.
With your manner, dress, air and styles,
fashion, wit and step
I'm sure you haven't, seen him here,
at least you can't have, yet.
For he would trample on your spats,
spill the ice upon your tie.
He'd wrinkle up your pretty shirt
and my, oh my, oh my!
He'd humbly speak of things he knew
that ring around your neck.
He'd look uncomely, in your wake, Sir.
Your icicles he'd wreck.
And so, I guess it's best this way
that you two have not yet, met
For your circles Mr. Penguin, Sir
are better to you kept.
Circumferences are funny lines
drawn round and round and round.
They never end nor begin,
They are, as they are found.
Just big round ovals, carousels,
merry-go-rounds that turn,
They seldom, cross successfully,
standing still the while they turn.
So, Mr. Penguin make your rounds,
your patterns, fashions, friends.
Just whirl and whirl like some silly top
until the spinning ends.
And then that puffed, stuffed shirt of yours
will curl to wrap your beak
For fashions, robes and circles leave no prose
they have none to speak.
I chase this truthful love,
my deer, my fawn, my friend
As his sports coat and joyful steps rush
from your frozen ends.
And so, you see the accepted dress
is not always quite as bright
As that, that's hidden deep beneath
the unorthodox coat of right.
by Linda A. Copp
©October 4, 1970