deep in the warren
they feel safe from the treachery
of my carnivorous calling

but I can use the shovel,
that terrible tool of modernity--after all,
'tis a favorite of grave diggers

a few scoops in the dank soil
and the rabbits are vulnerable to my attack:
a simple bashing of twitching skulls

my hands driven by a hunger
they satisfy with grasses in summer,
twigs, roots in winter

I wish my needs were so meager
my appetite so abstemious--but I crave
blood fresh flesh, torn from the bone

without their sacrifice, I must seek
bigger beasts, long dead, cellophane sealed
and put on ****** display

or become a vegan and ground great grains,
boil lazy legumes, and feign a higher nobility
in what I eat and excrete