So fond of praise and petting you endure
With your prehensile upper lip, high fives
By which sweet turnip slices you procure,
Though they are not essential to survive.
Yet thanks to those who think your horn is magic
Though it’s composed of only keratin,
Which makes up hair and fingernails, it’s tragic;
Your numbers dwindle, to the world’s chagrin.
With untold gratitude do I behold
Your ears when sunshine turns their fringes gold.