Poem of the Bunnyman's Pigeon-Stomping Triumph

Angelic is your face, your hair of gold
Falling ‘round your shoulders, as if to frame,
That perfect countenance; ne’er to be told,
That for a pigeon’s death, thou art to blame.

Upon its back, your foot did soundly land;
And lo, there was a grisly audible crunch;
You, moments prior, fed them from your hand;
Who kills someone they only just gave lunch?

And then you laughed, your mouth wide to emit,
The joyous shrieking, triumphal in each note;
And from my own throat bubbled a remit;
I giggled, too, at the pigeon that you smote.

And by your sweet small face, your innocence was sold;
And watching me watch you, you knew I would not scold.

The End

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