I am the mask, satin-smooth,
As fine as gossamer silk.  
I glide like a veil of falling snow
Over cracks, over fissures
Filling every nook and cranny
That mars this blemished world.  
Beneath the gaze of man,
I am an enigma, a subtle glamour.  
I am the rosy hue of the ripest apples,
A painted glance that cuts to the heart.  
I am both light and darkness,
The faint memory of a kiss.
I am a thing of perfection
But only look – never touch!

The boom of artillery roars in my ears.
A deadly projectile whooshes over my head,
Slamming into the luckless soul behind me,
And heavy feet beat out a rhythmless tattoo.

Men - are they warriors, soldiers?  Gladiators?
They shout encouragement to their comrades,
And screech obscenities at their adversaries.
Reduced to savages, they are consumed by bloodlust.

Something lands nearby.  
It strikes the ground, bounces, rolls to my feet.
“Get it!” someone cries out desperately.
A grenade?  I lunge, lift it up, hurl it away.

The battle rages on, the artillery still booms,
Men still shout.  I want to run, to hide,
But I can only wait for it all to end
When basketball ends at 12:35.

Little Red Riding Hood walked through the woods
Singing and swinging her bag of baked goods
When out of the brush leapt a wolf with a smile
And some florist’s advice for the innocent child.
So off went the girl, picking bunches of daisies
While Wolf raced ahead with a step none too lazy.

Then at Grandmother’s door he knocked and said
“Let me in dear Grandmother, it’s your little Red."
So with grandmother’s blessing he let himself in
And ate up the oldest of little Red’s kin.  
Then Little Red Riding Hood came through the door
With nary a clue of what was in store.
After noting her “grandmother’s” ears, nose, and teeth
Into Wolf’s gullet she went with a shriek.

As the transvestite wolf began snoring like thunder,
Along came a huntsman, who cut his belly asunder.
Out came Red Riding Hood, Grandmother too
While Wolf, so oblivious, kept sleeping right through.
With a few heavy stones, a needle and thread
Wolf, far too full, finally woke then dropped dead.  

After a party of baked goods and wine,
The huntsman gave Red a great wolf pelt so fine.  
“Thank you, dear huntsman,” said our little Red,  
“But I’d rather skin wolves on my lonesome instead.  
I know things now, of these beasts and their wiles
I’ll give them a lesson, with blood and with style.
Teach me to stalk, to chase and to shoot
The best huntress I’ll be - and the cutest, to boot."

The huntsman, he roared with his big booming laughter.
In a voice that rose straight up to the rafters:
“Why little girl, have you a taste for the hunt?
You’re better off sewing, though I hate to be blunt.”
But little Red pouted, and threatened to cry
So the huntsman gave in, with a shrug and a sigh.

The huntsman- he was a formidable teacher.
Now Red lives in fear of no living creature.
Today, when Red Riding Hood walks through the woods
She carries bags of new, furry goods.  
And when out of the brush leaps a wolf with a smile,
She smiles right back: “You’ve picked the wrong child."