On a day of smog-compactness,
And when I, in tunic, on planks stooped,
Through the clumsy cluster of logs,
Like an arrow out of a bow, ricocheted he,
The warrior, the dictator, the vampire!
His manes, I bet, golden silky threads,
Dangling on his thick and flabby neck,
And like straight standing swords
In the naked sun, uprit, his fangs!
The persons, crouched, and the cattle,
Out for fodder, stuck in stamped,
To the dichotomous ways, scuttled!
His prey, he telescoped, oh! Unfortunate dog;
Yes! Galloping was in a jiffy, and
The old king was on his throne!
At the crevice I, in tremors, thanked God;
And he,  the victorious, eyes smouldering,
Trekked, roaring, growling and howling!
Though dreadful, how jolly moments,
For them too, I am sure, yes, so sure,
Met the lord of the forest, lord of the beasts,
And in thickness of bushes, he vanished!