Of all of the creatures that I’ve ever known –
Excepting his head and erogenous zone –
The human’s anatomy seems, I declare,
To be worst in respect of the absence of hair.
To be born without thermally sound insulation
Is the sign of a backward, inferior station,
And puts him at grave disadvantage to me,
With indigenous wool from my head to my knee.
I suspect that this lack of an adequate fleece
Is the probable cause of his pending demise.
For, if he were not so exposed to the weather,
And thus always close to the end of his tether,
His energy crises might not be the cause
Of his constant obsessions with quarrels and wars;
Till the bountiful earth and the opulent oceans
Resound to the pound of his oily commotions.
So if, as he thinks, he is cleverer far
Than the whole of the rest of us animals are,
Why on earth can’t he emulate all other creatures
By growing a pelt on his prominent features?
Or implanting the warm and most intimate peace
Of his very own soft, subcutaneous fleece?
Now, if he would turn all his science to this,
And give all his wilder pretensions a miss,
There might yet be cause for some little elation,
And we’d welcome him back to the rest of creation.
Meanwhile, since we always have plenty to spare,
We’ll continue to offer him woollies to wear,
Even though doing so tends to confirm his
Lack of a thermally sound epidermis.
( Bertie Ramsbottom Book of Improbable Sheep )