[NO ANIMALS WERE INJURED IN THE WRITING OF THIS POEM.]
jungle nights, so very scary
creepy-crawlies, beasties hairy
caws, screeches, and echoed calls
no protection of moat or walls
just the thinnest nylon tent
then, an idea, heaven-sent
who can protect this fearful man?
thank you, Mr. Jackie Chan
grabbing up a pint of rum
for lack of sword or loaded gun
I proffered monkeys the kung fu elixir
they accepted on proviso of a cola mixer
high hopes were had for my simian guards
but a favorable outcome wasn’t in the cards
for monkeys make mean (and flatulent) drunks
bottle empty, they threw poo in splattery chunks
overturning a lantern, my tent burst alight
never bring flames to a poo-slinging fight
soon poo was catapulted, striking like the greek fire
and the whole jungle was in a situation dire
Mr. Chan, how could you do me so wrong?
cuba libres don’t make monkey kung fu strong
it just makes Arsonists of the Flaming Poo
a drunken monkey has got no kung fu!
Micro-Writing 