An Apocryphal Tail

What have you done with your tail?,
Mother Monkey asked her son.
It’s been back there without fail,
But now it seems you have none.

I decided I didn’t need it
To get ahead in this world.
It’s in the way when I sit
No matter how much it’s curled.

And my pants fit so oddly,
Ruining the line of my suit.
Tailor said it’s ungodly
To look such a vulgar brute.

It trailed too far behind me
And would get caught in the door.
Politely open one kindly
To walk away bruised and sore.

No, tails are not my fashion;
I would rather grow a brain.
From tree-swinging I’ll cash in
And learn to write like Mark Twain.