Sifakas were lively lemurs with
A verdant home pulled out of myth:
In forests rich with emerald green,
Their brilliant treasures never seen,
Sifakas evolved to leap, not walk–
On ground, their hips are sideways-locked.
For why would those who glide airstreams
Want more than cozy, high sunbeams?
As sparks of life lit playful eyes,
Sifakas would sail clean sapphire skies
Then stars would twinkle lullabies
While crickets softly chirped goodbye.
But deep in Madagascar’s heart
Lay gems worth more, to man’s delight–
And forests’ troves of fertile earth
Attracted farmers’ desperate sights.
As trees were wrenched from grieving ground,
Sifakas’ safe boughs were likewise torn.
And while they struggled, stranded low
A crueler industry was born:
Safaris slashed and burned their way
To havens with sifakas inside,
And found their wretched movements cute
With weak arms flailing, hips swung wide.
Sifakas now writhe on ashy roads
In pitiful and frantic dance.
The blackened brush and shriveled trees
Are backdrop for this twisted stage:
Cremating forests, tourists made
The spectacle they burned to see.
Sifakas, performing, now behold
The glory of man’s golden age.
Their eyes reflect no gleaming stars,
Their children choke on smoke and starve,
Their hunters carve horrendous scars–
But still, I guess, it beats a cage:
Captive mammals mutilate themselves for entertainment.