If I begged you to, would you hitchhike
to the ice-sculpture factory, where
the drunken cow was just presented,
and the sleeping horse was celebrated?
Ah, those caught animals, where else
would they be paraded? I visualise you
sitting on a black camel, wearing a red
fedora, and a maroon, velvet dress.

It would be sunset, rosé wine would be
flowing, the monkey would be dancing
to zither music. I picture you laughing,
then directing the singing to include a
hymn to a snail, that small fellow who
brings his home with him — easily shown
in ice. And maybe an encore to a frog
who sits on a plate, waiting to dance.