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.