I had arranged the wretched creatures
Into single files along the line
Their humped backs and stunted arms
Wailing at the opportunity to reach
Some sort of freedom or transcendence
The guide informative and sturdy
To the last croc question ever answered
Their mouths open, eyes wide,
Holding the baby dinosaur tight
For tourist orientated photo shots
Walking back by the freezers where
The tastier bits are sold in parts
Out to a car park built for buses
There is no freedom from truth here
Only the pathetic crawl toward being
Primal reptile waiting to bite
In whatever form that may take
Hoping to transform us in the night
Tourist freak, White Man fake
Become spirit bird, dreamtime snake.
© shaun patrick green
2012
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