Jungle Still

In the shadow of the moon reminisced an old raccoon. Oh, those days when his own dad went ballistic, later mad. All because his wife had tired of her husband's much admired prowess in their birchwood bed. News soon came that she was dead causing junior to become rather partial to good rum. Yes, I know, your brows just lifted as your thinking brain has drifted to this inconsistency. Rum for coons? How could this be. Let me tell you doubting reader did you know each horny breeder and their habits day and night? If you don't, go fly a kite! How would you, a simple wanker, small town janitor or banker be aware of what they do truly, you don't have a clue. I have met (though it was risky) elephants so fond of whiskey that they owned their jungle still! They would mix and then distill eau de vie from fresh ingredients, getting absolute obedience from the clan and other critters. Zebras like their booze with bitters, all giraffes prefer long straws and the lions rub their paws as each Friday, after supper they shut off the vat of copper which has heated all the stuff. Rabbits, birds and mice would puff on their weeds, anticipating not their pastime (which is mating) but the fest where they could sample jungle juice (supply was ample) . And their God had long decreed that there was a real need to be friendly to each other, foes be treated like your brother once a week, when He suspended killing 'til the orgy ended. This has been routine for ages only animals in cages don't have access to the stuff, that's why zoo life is so tough. The raccoon, marked by cirrhosis, smoke-related silicosis and the ravages of time, sat there, sipping gin with lime then stood up and toppled over into green and luscious clover. In the shadow of the moon killing would start up, too soon.