The Birth

A tree-trunk, says one blind man

A house, says another

A hairy carpet, says the third

And they all couldn’t bring to bear

The elephant in the room

Who had no place in the inn

And ended up,

Neat as a pin,

With mice and men

Clueless

As to what

Had entered in on them.

In the heat of the moment,

In a rushing tide,

The elephant in the room

stepped on the first,

suffocated the second

while the third (with the mice) ran screaming out.

That’s how the elephant got his room:

Embalmed in silence, tainted with fear

As tall as the ceiling

with no intentions clear.

And that’s why everyone these days

Gives him a place;

A seat of honour, a bow of grace,

And mentions not his name.

O my elephant, my elephant

in the room.