Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3827/Grey Gibbons
With fingers too canny to bungle, With footsteps too cunning to swerve, They swing through the heights of the jungle, These stalwarts of infinite nerve; Blithe sailors who heed not the breezes Which play round their riggings and spars, Lithe gymnasts who live on trapezes And parallel bars.
In ballrooms of plantain and mango They scamper, they slither and slide In the throes of a tropical tango, In the grip of a Gibbony glide; 'Tis thus in these desolate spaces, Away from humanity's ken, They mimic the civilised races And strive to be men.
As the grey little acrobats patter O'er creepers of myriad shapes, They mouth not the meaningless chatter Of dull and demoralised apes; But, proud of their portion as creatures Who know not the stigma of tails, They screw up their weather-worn features And practise their scales.
And oft in this primitive Eden When I study some antic that hints At the physical fitness of Sweden, The speed of American sprints, I dream of the wreaths and the ribbons Their prowess would certainly win, If there weren't any war, and my gibbons Could go to Berlin. J. M. S.