Hands of a surgeon,
Fins of a sturgeon…
Wait, no… that’s not right.
Let me admit that I have no gift
for mythical fliers that get lift.
One can’t just throw wings on a rat.
Of course you can, we call it a bat!
Alright, bad example…
One can’t draw wings on a whale,
and through the sky expect it sail.
Much better.
How did the likes of primitive man
create the myth of a flying orangutan?
They did no such thing.
Fair enough, then answer me this:
Who came up with ogres eating babies?
Does a crescent-moon werewolf give you rabies?
Who first saw a spiraling dragon,
and how many drops remained in his flagon?
From whence came the fearless griffin
body of a lion and the head of a… chicken?
If by her shrill scream you know a banshee,
how’d you know it’s not any old woman she?
In how many beds are succubi layin’
in which the occupant ain’t already strayin’?
Leprechaun stories come from notorious drinkers,
and Gorgons and Sirens from a culture of thinkers.
My deficit, it seems, is as aligns with my fears.
Quick, get me a stack of books and a case of beers.
