He was so big he left
shadows on the plains,
so tremendous he
(You should have seen it!
You should have seen it)
played chess with elephants
and breathed in the clouds with a great
WHOOSH!
And they say—they say
he drank up all the rain
so they could grow corn in the sun
and he carved rivers
with the tip of his tongue.
One time
(on a bet)
he dragged Australia around the world,
splashing in the ocean like
it was a puddle, he did,
and he brewed beer in the Grand Canyon—
gave every man in the world
a sip, did the big man—
they loved him.

Then he tripped and stepped on
a little boy
(tears like lakes)
and they said—they said—
they said he couldn’t be the big man
anymore, he was
too big to be walkin’ around,
how ‘bout he leave everybody be?

And he—he—he—
didn’t look big no more
not big, but clumsy,
like some kinda ogre,
and they all drew back from him,
the monstrous man.

So he climbed the mountains,
balanced on the peaks,
and he jumped into the sky
(You should have seen it!
You should have!)
with an look you’d hope to never know,
like all the world was cracking
‘cause of you.
It was all the grief ever grown by anybody.

The big man—the too big man—
well, he never came back,
and there don’t seem to be any big men
anymore.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...