There be coarse souls to whom all flesh is game,
Who do not hail thee as a new-born brother
But merely as a thing at which to aim
Their fratricidal guns; they simply smother
The sense, which I for one cannot eschew,
Of soul relationship 'twixt man and gnu.
'Tis not, O surely not, for such as these
Those baby limbs are flung in lightsome capers;
Those puny bleatings were not meant to please
Facetious writers for the daily papers;