I can’t imagine how it would be,
to have heads numbering more than three.
But sadly, there once was a creature who
counted more than twenty-two.
The beast was feared throughout the land
with razor teeth and scales like sand,
poisoned breath and giant claws,
and don’t forget those snapping maws!
Yet he could not kill a single soul,
Not elf nor dwarf nor any troll.
The times he should’ve been well-fed
were spent to argue himself instead.
“I think we ought to have some tea,”
said Fred, who was head twenty-three.
“You fool! No way! Let’s have some juice!”
said head number eight, known as Bruce.
Soon it was that head twenty-one
decided that nothing would ever get done.
He roared and spat in another’s eye,
but that was not a very good try.
Chaos ensued as the heads waged war,
seven ripped nine and eight bit four.
With all those mouths, it’s funny how
the creature couldn’t get much chow.
So that is why you’ll never see
a beast called “us” instead of “me.”
C.M. Greathouse 