piggymouse | The Hippopotamus

Некоторые спрашивают меня: если бы я был не я, а, скажем, коллега gorba, какие бы стихи я хотел писать.

Я отвечаю: если бы коллега gorba был не коллега gorba, а я, он бы писал про гиппопотама.

The broad-backed hippopotamus	
Rests on his belly in the mud;	
Although he seems so firm to us	
He is merely flesh and blood.	
 
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;	
While the True Church can never fail	
For it is based upon a rock.	
 
The hippo’s feeble steps may err	
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir	
To gather in its dividends.	
 
The ’potamus can never reach	
The mango on the mango-tree;	
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.	
 
At mating time the hippo’s voice	
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,	
But every week we hear rejoice	
The Church, at being one with God.
 
The hippopotamus’s day	
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;	
God works in a mysterious way—	
The Church can sleep and feed at once.	
 
I saw the ’potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,	
And quiring angels round him sing	
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.	
 
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean	
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen	
Performing on a harp of gold.	
 
He shall be washed as white as snow,	
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,	
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.