Rolls down to your rolls,

bouncy pork, always sudsy as a

soapbar ever so tenderly

molded by mother’s hooves.

Fierce as only a swamp beast

could be, yet when you ee, step

by bouldering step, it reminds

of the faerie inside us all, the

animal drive to gnaw at the

knee of our keeper and then

plop down into a dollop of

rubbery comfort. O, baby

hippo, don’t ever dry your

bubbly lather of bliss.