A smellephant lives down the lane.
He’s got home cooking on the brain.
He cannot cook. He has four feet,
better for marching down the street.
Besides, he doesn’t know a pan
from the lid of a garbage can.
When his belly starts to rumble,
door-to-door, he’ll sniff and stumble
after potatoes and juicy roast,
or coffee and some eggs on toast.
Hear his trumpet, let him in,
or a trampling might begin;
of gardens, and of outdoor toys.
Don’t hide your food, or make a noise.
Just place it gently out the door,
so the smellephant will not roar.
He’ll gobble it in seconds flat,
then be as docile as a cat.