Zebra Skin Poem by Edmund V. Strolis

Sherman Wright had a tiny head, round as a cricket ball
Born with thick syrupy blood he moved with feet of lead
With skin like weathered duct tape and a pencil thin neck
His zebra skin of alternating stripes, oddly somehow fit

Peculiar? Oh yes

Crowning his circular dome were long flowing locks of gold
He was shiny bald for ten years until on his birthday they grew
A sort of flowering overflow from brains that grew along too
Profound in depth as well as in wisdom, a true renaissance boy

Unusual? Indeed

A sponge he was, it's true, absorbing every moment spent
Yet most important of all he was a fountain of common sense
A sense that kept him grounded, civil, sensitive and brave
No longer with feet of lead, he was ten steps ahead instead

Incredible? Sure

This odd one was more than accepted and in this climate praised
He was not ostracized or pushed away not in these progressive days
Until one day from his lips he let slip words that marked the end
He learned a lesson that day about tolerance in the hearts of men

Orwellian? Yes