Ode to a Spinosaurus
(in honor of Scotland, and with apologies to Rabbie Burns)
Huge, freakish, loomin’, petrifying lizard,
O what a hunger’s in thy gizzard,
What would’st thou give to some evil wizard
To teleport me there!
From where I sit, listening to All Things Considered
On my easy chair.
For the futileness of man’s chronology
I offer my sincere apology,
That it keeps thee from phrenology
Of my cranial orb.
We share a nutrional etiology:
To live, we must absorb.
(We’re kinda like the Borg)
I know that thou would chomp my bones,
Ignoring all my desperate moans:
If we were playing Game of Thrones,
Thou’d be a Lannister.
What then? Thou ain’t Mother Jones
And I’m not Roger Bannister!
And now thy time, it has been lost,
Like a wee biscuit to Marcel Proust,
All dino lovers, comet-crossed,
Before the world goes dark.
Ne’er likely to bare teeth unflossed
In some Jurassic Park.
Thou wouldst dive deep for delicious beasties,
Like a juicy onchopristis,
Or a ptychodus shark, and one for the missus,
A wee tasty nibble.
She’d thank you with a thousand kisses,
For all thy tribble!
But alas, you gorgeous kraken,
Thou find the seas are very lackin’,
Not one tasty bit o’ bacon,
In a month of Sundaes!
If I were near, thy lips’d be smackin’
At me panic-stained undies!
It dinnae require a full Greek chorus,
To know the plot the Fates dug for us:
The best-laid plans of the spinosaurus,
Like mice and men, will go to ground.
Whether grand or wise, our clay is porous,
and homeward bound.
But as Darwin found upon the Beagle,
every three-horned giant and tyrant regal
has its chance to write a sequel
beyond the years’ impeding tar.
P’haps thine is in that bloody seagull
that just pooped upon my car.