I carry it in my pocket.
A little monkey poem on
a string. I take it out now
and then and drop it like
a yo-yo. The little monkey
poem dances like a do-do.

Sometimes I cut the string
and the little monkey poem
goes ape on the town. It
gets in all sorts of trouble.
I need to bail it out of jail.
Should I leave it at the zoo?

I don’t know what to do with
it. I feel responsible for what
it does sometimes. The little
monkey poem usually gets
out of line. I think I have
to give it away to someone.

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