manhattanproject

Went ahead and dug up an old poem of mine, dusted it off, and tweaked the metre a little. Be brutal.

The Fuddle-Beast


The moon was a sliver
Of bounteous silver
The night that the fuddle-beast died

The stars they did shimmer
With their tranquil glimmer
And left him with no place to hide

He ran past the clam tree
And crawled through the fuzz-weeds
Turning their blue leaves aside

The hunters were coming
He heard their guns gunning
They wanted his beautiful hide

Oh, how he did hate them
And tried to escape them
He tried and he tried and he tried

But he could not run fast
His pace was soon surpassed
could not match the hunters' quick stride

So under the moon's light
He hid out of their sight
A rabbit hole held him inside

He sat still and listened
The moon above glistened
Waiting for the hunt to subside

He heard their jeep parking
Their savage dogs barking
The rattle of guns at their sides

The moon in the night sky
Had risen up too high
He knew he'd no time left to bide

The dogs, they were growling
While hunters were prowling
As they waited for him outside

He knew he was done for
Knew what they had guns for
So fuddle-beast broke down and cried

The dogs tried to get him
But they could not fit in
The rabbit hole wasn't that wide

They waited for sun-up
Before his time was up
Their patience did swell them with pride

The morning sky burned red
With hideous bloodshed
The day that the fuddle-beast died