The Wiley Wildebeest

Poem By Greg Costello

I'm just a young wildebeest, and to say the very least,
Not all that appealing to the eye,
Yet 'round these plains, between crocs and manes,
By the grace of God, go I.

Now it's fair to think, I'm a food-chain link,
But that's not what irks me the most,
More the continual strife, of the migratory life,
The tough slog from pillar to post.

Incredulously, we do this annually,
As we are genetically predisposed,
Whoever got it in their brain, to follow the rain,
To me that name must be disclosed.

See we're a million strong, and our tumultuous throng,
Trek for kilometres in countless degrees,
Our way's riddled with foes, but it's me that they've chose,
And so I must the crocodiles appease.

Now they line the river-banks, in reptilian ranks,
As it's reached this time of year,
Making their moves, upon hearing our hooves,
And smelling the quadrupedal fear

So it's me who goes first, disobeying my thirst,
To summon the croc king close by,
'Excuse me sir, ' in nerves I slur,
'Make way for my friends and I'.

'You what, ' he said, and I watched in dread,
As his suppressed vexation grew,
'You loricates won't feast, on fresh wildebeest,
For all of us, we are gnu'.

'Oh! ' he replied, as if he'd just denied,
All his ancient ancestral genes,
'I must be confused, ' his ego now bruised,
'All is not quite as it seems'.

'Then won't you make way, as we musn't delay,
We are all travelling toward pastures new, '
And we gambolled across, without solitary loss,
And slaughter did somehow, eschew.

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