Just over the rise,
A weasel stood up to speak.
Her tail and back drooped,
There were tears in her eyes
And some egg yolk stuck to her cheek.
"The farmers down yonder,
How they harry and try us,
They use and abuse and upend us.
I ask you to ponder
Just one moment, why us?
Are there no wolves out there to defend us?
"Foresaken, my sisters,
Patronized, hammered and roasted!
Boiled to a blister,
Robbed of our seed
But peace I can bring you," she boasted.
"Hide your eggs in my warren,
There's a tunnel just by,
And the farmer's pail holds death.
The coop's now as foreign
As the white-clouded sky
And you all deserve bugs on your breath."
Her sermon stuttered,
The old screen-door slammed
And the farmer, in coveralls, came.
"Weasel?" he muttered
Under each nest he peeked,
Took some eggs and scattered some grain.
When he'd gone,
The weasel that he hadn't seen
Returned to homilize and inspire
The laying hens cackled along,
And crowned her hen-house queen,
So she bowed, took an egg and retired.
WEASEL, n. The new lion. Homo pirroueticus.