The hippopotamus wallows in the mud

of the world but the shallow pool,

clear and crystal, remains unseen,

out of the sight of the dear old chubby hippo;

he has not made the decision on purpose,

he just has the guilt of the river

on his shoulders.

Not understanding that the massacre

of elephants was not his fault,

he carries the remorse

of being a hundred miles away

on the day the poachers came,

to him the mud

is the only salvation he knows.