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My book of short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, consists of many conversations that an Elephant has with God. In one of the stories, he breaks out into {his version of} poetry.

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The monkeys, in the trees,

Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.

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I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.

It was older, and much colder.

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It is a stone, which has grown

In a zone, all alone.

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It is a thrill, to have free will,

That is until, others say `nil’.

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That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,

My muse to cast, into the past.

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The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,

And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.

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It’s just a guess, I do confess,

That more is less, in the wilderness.

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God – as God is wont to do – did have the last word.

Poems are made by fools like thee,

But only I can make a tree.

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