Severine Veins Poem by John Weber

Since Chris and Tamra had to jet
without much plan for the future,
I was bestowed the family pet
who then proceeded to suture

my couch, my drapes, the front screen door
before dashing to bolt outside,
returning in moments with gore
that once held a rabbit inside.

That gray tiger gave me a swipe
each time I tied to intervene
as he revealed his greedy stripe
by picking that poor morsel clean

just like a child at Easter-time
holding a fat, chocolate bunny,
he wolfed-down all proof of his crime
except the tail, which proved funny;

one little poof of evidence
could convict my treacherous friend
so he hid proof of his offense
by batting his only loose end.

Such is the tale of Severine:
he chose to hunt on his own terms
even if fate plays violin
when he gets infected with worms.