On a frigid morning some months past the vernal equinox,
a work of a young poet was perused. Her love had treated her badly,
you see, through a failing of character all too common, and so he was cast
as the many-toothed carnivore of the vast seas in spare, sad words.
As always after betrayal, an idealized past was a camouflaged hulk
of stone hopping upon paths wanderers tread,
and so her fairer lovers were awarded masks of great savannah felines.
To their heated caresses she attributed an end to chaos.
The language of the poem drew an involuntary smirk,
as if the manner of sharpening claws
was the only difference between the lion and a lioness.
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