Harriet

 

A hippo called Harriet

Arrived in her chariot,

Pulled by a jumbo-sized team.

She’d come to sing

At this charity thing,

Her voice, the latest hit on the scene.

 

She requested a rider,

A barrel of cider,

Made of cabbage and her own river water.

She informed all her crew

They could share her home brew,

But none of them thought that they oughtta.

 

She finished off the juice

And her bladder let loose,

A torrent you would not have believed.

She sat in her puddle,

Her mind in a muddle,

Hooch much stronger than Harriet perceived.

 

Organisers in a flap,

Considered a gap,

Leaving Harriet out of their line-up.

But she was top billing,

Her act was so thrilling,

Without her, donations would dry up.

 

The show must go on,

So before very long,

Our diva arrived on the stage.

Her balance wasn’t great,

And she couldn’t see straight,

Soon the crowd began to engage.

 

They booed and they hissed,

At Harriet, clearly pissed,

But really, they should have known better.

Hippo’s don’t cry,

They just let muck fly,

So the moral is never upset her.

 

The charity, thinking they’d benefit,

Didn’t expect buckets of hippo shit,

And patrons, covered from head to toe.

Who knew hippo’s could run,

As she fled those wearing dung,

Safe, back home she would go.

 

Harriet’s family took her back,

And never mentioned the fact

That hippo’s are not designed to be singers.

To them she’s a star,

And now she doesn’t stray far.

Harriet is just one of many mudslingers.