Little elephant.
Your varied rubbery tail.
Bare and nary an element of hair.
Shoot.
I mean darn.
Not a bullet.
Not an ivory hunter.
So not there.
Not a Tit or a nit or gnat.
Not a hoot or a toot or a tat.
Just a great grey stub.
Tail bare of hair.
A boney leathery nub.
That knobby weathered end.
Poor tubby elephant.
All those tramping years ahead.
Camping to herd and live.
Existing without a hairy tail.
Life without a fly switch.
Not a single strand.
Not one grand hair.
No broom to groom.
No bristles to swish.
Deep elephant boom and gloom.
Bone and gristle gol'darn it.
Precious dreamy hair.
Valuable as gleaming ivory.
A tail doomed to be completely bare.
I'm imagining.
Dag nabbit.
Hare Brier.
An innocuous hairless rabbit.
Or a conspicuously hairless Hobbit.
Sporting some shade of pink or white.
Just another glinting bald pate.
Herr Briar mirroring his shining empty plate.
And Master Frodo's glimmering ring.
Such a heady glistening state.
Twinkles with every flickering wink.
More wrinkled skin when Bilbo blinks.
Dinky trinkets apart from glabrous tales.
All those skinned bald bits.
Confusion in that fairy Shire.
At home in airy Africa.
Poor baby Tembe elephant.
Somebody bit your swish off.
Trumpeting elephant rivalry.
Certainly elephant civility shouldn't fail.
Surely elephant tails should prevail.
Chivalry on that biting day.
Righteous trumpeting saved you.
Mother protectively bumping you away.
Disarray in that portly troubling fray.
Top hat pachyderm wishes.
Big flapping ears and soothing hairy swishes.
Tusks sorting other elephant tails.
Parading and reporting loudly.
Whooshing their hairy tails proudly.
The jostling crowd retorts.
Humble grumblings.
All sorts of family fumbling and tumbling.
Rumbling down every parade trail.
Purporting Baby Elephant's lack of brush.
Every rambling elephant's flashy whip.
Baby Tembe Elephant tail's been nipped.
Snipped now.
Baby Tembe Elephant.
Brusquely equipped now.
Sporting a hairless pachyderm tail.