The tapir,
you may know, is prehensile.
With his
nose he can hold any utensil.
But what’s really absurd
is that he writes not a word
when
someone gives him due paper and pencil.
Why in limericks and other places do
we laugh at so many good creatures? Why are we so relentlessly superior?
Moral: Doesn’t it reveal how much we feel inherently and,
instead, inferior?
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