Elephant Song

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The elephant's a beast, 'tis said, That wears its tail upon its head; And where the beastie's tail should be, A wrinkled suit's all one can see. It eats too much, its brain's too small It takes up room from wall to wall; Ears too big, and feet too flat, Now, who could love a thing like that?

Yet, bullhands tell of circus rings Surrounded by those smelly things. Ballet girls would perch on top While bullhands followed with a mop And spade and barrow to haul away The stuff the beasts et yesterday. Bullhands speak of those squashed flat By giants who are sorry that Their keepers, friends, companions all Must be scraped from off the wall.

Bullhands sing in tones adored Of all of those who have been gored, Or torn apart, or trampled down By some bewrinkled, tusked clown. It's sad to say but it's no act, They love the beasts, and that's a fact. And if you have but half a wit, Can't find that 'pon which you sit, Your back is strong, your mind is weak, Your sense of smell is not at peak, Then what they say, my friends, is true: You can be a bullhand too.

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