Beastie Baas at Midnight
Spines shoot out of cottony curls,
when the full moon sets sail,
and pastures blue like velvet
while the taverns stink of ale.
Presumptions will prove undoing
if you’d thought she was one of you.
Oh downy flock, remember that
some sheep have bloodlust too.
There never was such a wolfish snake,
with gentle doe-like eyes.
She’ll gorge and feast in your coral
and never grow in size.
First you’ll hear a crying bleat
from those who dare surround her,
impaled on bones that jut and pierce
through fleece that jerk and flounder.
Up will rise a sense of iron,
lapped up by her tongue.
And those who dared to bully her
will find their necks have wrung.
Beware the hungry lamb,
I say, who wears the guise of “cute,”
You’ll never know what softness
shields a a moon-struck, vicious root.