Being intelligent inside an ape is like being human inside a car. You’re saddled with a prognathous mask for a face. You’re incapable of words and must resort to loud, alarming noises. Your every motion is absurdly powerful—a dangerous state of affairs because you’re subject to sudden accesses of rage.
Fourth installment of a set of children’s poems I wrote a dozen years ago.
The Last Neanderthal’s Love Song
O ancestors! Please hear my cry.
I’m eighteen summers old.
I need a wife, but evolution’s
Left me in the cold.
I’m the last Neanderthal.
I have some woman friends—
Nice-looking, others tell me—but
They’re Homo sapiens.
I’d like to meet a girl like Mom
With a rich potato form.
These sapiens are willowy;
They don’t look very warm.
A woman looks her best, I think,
With low, protruding brow,
But the female forehead fashion
Is high and flat right now.
A lady’s lower jaw should sink
Beneath their lips, these girls have got
A pointy, prickly “chin.”
A sideways egg’s the pretty shape
That suits a female skull.
But modern girls have heads as round
As the moon does when it’s full.
Alas, O ancestors! Alas,
Our race will not survive.
I’ll never wed, and I’m the last