Two apes came in alone, unaided,
great hairy ones with ugly mugs;
they lurched around as if on drugs,
their dark eyes sad and jaded.
They slowly started their routine,
lethargically they juggled balls,
then, to our laughter, cheers and calls,
bounced on a trampoline.
What happened next I won't forget:
they dressed themselves as man and wife,
then ate raw meat with fork and knife,
and shared a cigarette.
We stood as one to give applause,
for they'd amazed us with their art
-- yet I alone saw, drawn apart,
the one who'd been the cause.
And she, their trainer, proud, withdrawn,
in long black dress, high-heels, and rings,
peeping out from curtained wings,
released a haughty yawn.
Those days come darkly back again:
She beckons coyly, wets her lips,
winks at me, then sways her hips,
and offers me champagne.
I drink. Oh God! I drink and drink,
and spinning, spinning, swoon, collapse,
then, after days (or weeks?) elapse,
awake, my mind a blank.
I see two apes, in straw and sand,
they shake their heads in sad dismay,
I lose my grip, I drunkly sway,
and raise my hairy hand.
My hairy hand? My simian shape!
In sympathy the others screech,
I join them, for I've lost my speech
and turned into an ape!
Now three of us come in unaided,
three hairy apes with ugly mugs;
we lurch around as if on drugs,
our dark eyes sad and jaded.