Vicambulating late at night
I chanced upon a sorry sight:
A crocodile, sad and cranky,
Wept into a sodden hanky.
“Mr. Crocodile,” said I,
“What misfortune’s made you cry?”
“It’s my lower teeth,” replied
The crocodile. “They’re too wide
To fit my narrow jaw, and so
The dentist said they had to go!”
Abortively, he tried to sneeze
And, failing, turned to face me. “Please,”
He importuned me, “Tell the truth.
Will be I be scary still, sans tooth?”
“Of course you will, you silly beast,”
I told him. “You could be deceased
And still elicit yelps and shrieks
As easily as mice make squeaks!”
“You really mean it? Truly? Deeply?
Dental surgeons don’t come cheaply.
I would hate to pay a lot
To find I’m scorned for what I’ve not.”
“Honestly,” I said, sincere,
“You’ve not the slightest thing to fear.
Except…” I let my voice trail off.
“Except?” He coughed a nervous cough
And lumbered closer. “Except wot?”
(He probably meant what, I thought.)
“Except,” I answered, hesitantly,
“Let’s see, how to put this gently?”
“Gently, schmently! I demand
You spit it out. You understand?”
“I do,” I said, “so, here’s the thing.
I took biology last spring,
And my professor told the class
That we would have to learn, to pass,
To tell the difference, quick as winks,
Between a bobcat and a lynx,
As well as ‘twixt an elk and deer,
And–which is most important here–
Between a crocodile and
An alligator. Understand?”
I turned the question back on him.
He didn’t. “Though your snout is slim
And pointy, if your lower jaw
Resembles an old, worn-out saw
Whose teeth have all disintegrated,
You will have been alligated!
Closed-mouthed gators’ lower teeth
Are all invisible beneath
Their overhanging upper jaws,
And you will look just like them, ’cause
Your own decumbent teeth won’t be
Around for anyone to see.
You’ll still look scary when you smile,
But not much like a crocodile.”
I stopped. I thought he would berate me,
But he didn’t.
He just ate me.
Take a tip, vicambulators:
Don’t call crocodiles gators.