A Spork in the Road

A poem beloved of my Mom’s side of the family, who all have a playful relationship with language:

Habits of the Hippopotamus
by Arthur Guiterman (1871-1943)

The hippopotamus is strong
And huge of head and broad of bustle;
The limbs on which he rolls along
Are big with hippopotomuscle.

He does not greatly care for sweets
Like ice cream, apple pie, or custard,
But takes to flavor what he eats
A little hippopotomustard.

The hippopotamus is true
To his principles, and just;
He always tries his best to do
The things one hippopotomust.

He never rides in trucks or trams,
In taxicabs or omnibuses,
And so keeps out of traffic jams
And other hippopotomusses.

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

Let’s talk about Italy.

In the north are the Alpine lakes where residents of Milan go on weekends and holidays. The best known lake is Lake Como, which according to the chatter on our tour bus has a sole inhabitant by the name of George Clooney. We drove past Lake Como on our way to Lugano, Switzerland, and let me tell you, George Clooney owns a LOT of houses.

Next to Lake Como is Lake Maggiore, which is a very long, very slender lake surrounded by one adorable town after another and roads that are (I measured) six inches wide. You might ask, how can such a road accomodate two tour buses, three scooters, five pedestrians, and one SmartCar across its narrow width? I don’t know. It’s Italy. We don’t worry about petty details like this; we’re too busy wondering what we’re going to eat next.

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