Poem Hunter
Concrete Jungle
(04 October 1943 / Germany)

Concrete Jungle

In the sweet month of April when the clover turns green
and the fox and the wolf go a-hunting again,
is the life of the hare not worth MUCH, is it then
and the mouse and its cousins are now rarely seen.
In the month of July when the rivers run dry
when the gnu and the wildebeest flee,
when the crocodiles groan and the hippos march by
comes the African killer bee.
And the elephants smash all the coconuts now
to extract from its flesh milk to drink
all the rhinos look sad as they figure out how
to escape from this threatening brink.
And the lions and tigers go after what moves
as they eat, also drink all the blood
bold hyenas clean up, eat the skin and the hooves
as they all dream of big rains and flood.
When the African sun send its merciless rays
down to earth to burn leaves into powder,
when the clouds in the sky wander slowly away
and the plaintiff calls only get louder.
That's when white man turns black as he burns to a crisp
and his hair singes into short curls,
and his lips become fat thus he talks with a lisp
as his African nature unfurls.
When the night filters in, goes to seed in the tops
of the trees and the mountains of stone
all the animals know there is nothing that stops
murder mayhem to all those alone.
As the temperature drops and the boulders expand
and sly reptiles hide under their rocks
and the king of the jungle, with excessive demands
goes after fat does and young bucks...

...we are glad that we live in a civilised world
where this predatorship is a stranger,
where deceit and its siblings are easily hurled
at our neighbours and friends, causing danger.
It's a jungle out there say the chimps in the trees,
the gazelle is convinced it's cut-throat
but the lawyer in court with his bargaining pleas
and the yuppy whose greedy eyes gloat.
So superior are we that we sit down to eat
and we think we're unique in our talking,
as we proudly show off the executive suite
where we hunt them by baiting and stalking.

User Rating: 2,8 / 5 ( 4 votes ) 3

Comments (3)

IM thinking NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, nice poem.
Yes herbert i think as you say we stand a better chance in the old jungle with the wild beast, get ourselves a bloody good club, a deep rock cave In this concrete jungle there is to many meat eating scavenger's When i read your poem, the old poet was thinking of the peace of the bush the call of the bird Secure myself a faithfull dog of good breed disappear into the bush or whats left of it, buy a hundred condoms to store my water Oh, the call of the bush Warm regards my friend
Enjoyed this one.Thank You.