The Hippo

Hippo Hippo, striking fear,
In the silence of despair;
What perceptive hand or teeth,
Could break thy vibrant purity?
In what brilliant spheres or time
struck the mirror of thine jaw?
with what weight dare he inspect?
What the mouth, dare hunt the mirror?
And what finger, & what balance,
Could burn the limits of thy tongue?
And when thy tongue began to talk,
What grim mouth? & what grim eyelid?
What the iron? what the pierce,
In what furnace was thy nerve?
What the stoker? what grim end,
Dare its dreadful torments look!
When the skies tore down their cloaks
And blessed men with their strokes:
Did he beam his toil to see?
Did he who made the mouse make thee?
Hippo Hippo, striking fear,
In the silence of despair;
What perceptive hand or teeth,
Could break thy vibrant purity?

Crunch!