Where is the Rhino-man that used to dwell ’round these parts? Tell me, does he still shriek like a mandrake when the rain wets his horn?
Well, if you happen to see him, remind him that “no one touches a black man’s radio.” Say it just like that – he’ll know what it means, and who sends him the greeting.
Where are you, Rhino-man? Drinking at the rhino watering hole? No, they wouldn’t have you. They’d take one look at your soft, fleshy hands and say, “Go away, half-breed. This hole’s for rhinos only.”
Or are you composing verses beneath the ill-lit roof of the troubadour’s den? No, they wouldn’t have you, either. “Go away,” they’d say, “you sound like a hillbilly. We want folksingers here.”
Who will have you, Rhino-man?
The last rumor I heard was that you were spotted strutting your stuff across the floor of an international banking convention, and they chased you out because you didn’t have any cash, and, worse still, they said you danced more like a drunken rhino than a sober man, and that just didn’t suit their needs, not at all.
I know the one place I won’t find you is under the grave. If scythe-wielding pride or arrow-throwing hubris could not pierce your rough, unforgiving hide, then weak death would stand no chance of leaking through your plates and corroding your ironclad heart and bringing you down.
Gott help the Rhino-man. Gott bless his blessed horn.
