It's March.

I'm as mad as a wild crazy beautiful hare.
I'm kicking my heels up.
I flirt with the grass.
It tickles you see.
A free running hare.
Hell it's great to be free.

I chat with the rabbits.
They chatter to much.
I dash over the field.
For some strange reason, it must be the season.

There's a chap sitting on a picnic rug.
A scarlet one.
He's alone.
His company is a bottle of whine,
I can hear him moaning.
Must be drowning his sorrows.

I hop off grinning to myself.
My teeth on my lower lip.
One more skip,
Hop and jump.
I hit the tree with quite a bump.
I'm a mad march hare with a very sore head!
(C) Livvi