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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