At the tip
of a chameleon's tongue
there is a pot of boiling glue
to cook flies for breakfast
before he sets off
on a slow tightwire walk
like a trapeze artist.
Under the belly of every snail
lies a tank full of a low-octane petrol
to propel the minuscule engine
to a destination of a juicy cabbage leaf.
It is overtaken
by American mechanical monsters,
drunk with gallons of gasoline,
that leave highways strewn
with gory confetti of corpses.
The loud Bang!
brings brawny farmers
running from homesteads to render help.
From beehive huts tumble black bumpkins
to gawk at twisted wrecks coated with fresh blood
amid cries of Help!'
Ambulances sound shrill sirens,
tearing the silky shawl of the night's silence
O! speed fiend
whose knell has sounded,
look at the snail
slumbering
in his shell.
See the chameleon
cosy under her quilted coat.
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