Elephantitis of the Imagination

by Quint McGuinley

YOUR poppa was your mother's uncle,
A fact that you now know.
It's sad that you were born at all,
But my how you did grow!

In first grade you stood 'bove the rest,
For growth had just begun.
By sixth grade you were 8 feet tall,
And weighed nearly a ton.

Your mother used a firehose
To wash behind your ears.
And your clothes were made of scrap metal,
Because you outgrew Sears.

Your parents fed you livestock,
Of which you ate four cows a day.
The townsfolk thought you demon spawn,
So they huddled close to pray.

Please take that boy away from here.
We're running out of food.
The widow Doyle died today,
After having seen him nude.

But nothing changed and you stayed 'round,
Despite the threats and stares.
So Bishop Jones took up his arms,
And the townsfolk they grabbed theirs.

''Get ye gone!'' Jones said that day,
To which you laughed and clapped.
And the townsfolk dropped their guns and cried
when they found you had them trapped.

Your arm span was a sight to see,
As you plowed into the group.
The men were merely toys to you,
And they dropped in one fell swoop.

You squashed them all except the girls,
For whom you had a plan.
But one stuck out above than the rest,
A large girl named Diane.

Her girth was quite a rarity,
She weighed four hundred pounds.
No other girl could handle you,
So you took her and left town.

You lead her up the mountainside,
And deep inside your cave.
Once there you loved her wildly,
And sent her to her grave.

And that's the last they heard of you,
For sadness drove you mad.
But without the biggest mouths to feed,
The townies were quite glad.

So that's the way the story goes,
Though I just read the tale.
But what the hell do I know?
I'm blind and can't read Braille.

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