Noah's Ark

The black panther was in the sulks—his eyes like lime green acid drops.

A gorilla—like a retired heavy-weight boxer, all the strength of his torso slumping down into his belly.

The hippo was soaking in the scum, showing nothing but his periscope eyes.

The sea lions sat up, begging, bleating like sheep sinuously swaying their bodies like prima donas in their most voluptuously soulful moments.

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The giraffe, like F. E. Woolley, the cricketer, is one of those overlarge creatures which yet have surprising grace.

Two cranes facing each other conferred darkly.

The chimpanzee, Jimmy, with his fingers twined in the wire wall of his cage, and his grey chin resting on his wrist, brooded in utter boredom like an old don supervising an exam.

One old kangaroo, muddy brown with a morning-after expression, held his hands together and hopped like a grown-up taking part in the games at a Sunday-school treat.

One of the chimps, who looks like an unshaven gardener, suddenly clutched the wire with both hands and, snorting, jumped heavily up and down on the flats of his feet, staring across the gardens.

The two baby elephants dancing their stocky pas de deux, nodding their heads sideways and swinging their trunks towards each other, the whole body swaying, the feet in a lazy chasse, the eyes fixed on the gallery.

(From "Zoo," by Louis MacNiece).