My Bête Rouge
My nightmare croc
glows a flaming red,
this monstrous king
of swampy realms.
Furious and
mud-spattered, hunger's his only
game, which he
cannot not win,
wielding a
snaggletooth jaw, his massive
weight, a whip-lash
tail. When his gut
is stuffed with
snapped-up snakes, and boar,
he suns ashore,
bellowing, spewing
a foul gas from
prey's rotting remains.
Except for a yearly
wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am
mating, he's a loner
hunter, abides not even kin.
How it frightened me
when this animal's brain
seized on becoming
America's Chief Beast,
this uber-croc with
drooling lips a perpetual sneer.
--Susan Beem
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