On the CBC Newsworld news last night, a short item from the
Winnipeg Zoo showed Snowball the Polar Bear, and revealed that she's on
Prozac to help relieve her constant pacing. (How do you spell relief?)
As usual, they failed to interview the bear to get her point of view.
My keepers think I'm all stressed out, because I pace my cage.
Perhaps they aren't aware that it's a function of my age.
For I was born here in the zoo, and in the zoo I'll die,
And though I'm fairly happy here, I miss the open sky.
I sniff the air and wonder where the other bears hang out.
They're up there in the Arctic on the ice floes, I've no doubt.
They wander free, and, unlike me, they take a seal for lunch,
While someone gives me herring or some carrots. Thanks a bunch!
The Arctic bears have miles to roam, and garbage dumps to raid,
And sometimes I think "Ursus maritimus' got it make!"
But then I hear that PCBs are in the polar diet,
And when they lunch, their fate is sealed. No thanks, don't think I'll
I pace a lot, and think too much, so Prozac's in the herring,
But maybe that's my keeper's way of showing that they're caring.
It's changed my mood, and I feel good, the lows are not so low,
But then the highs are not so high, a tradeoff, don't you know.
So I will take whatever comes, and just try to relax,
My analyst will help cure my anxiety attacks.
I would suppose everyone knows I'd rather be on drugs
Than stretched out on a salesroom floor with all the other rugs.
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