Rip The Wayward Rabbit Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

Along side the road not far from town
Is a modest home known all around.
Here lives a solitary one whose name is Robert Ingram Perr
RIP or by some the Scribbler.

For you see as you pass along
Rhyming signs appear, then are gone.
Here today and gone tomorrow
Is what they say in sorrow.

For the Scribbler having only
so much paper on which to write
Has to from time to time
remove those that seem not just right.

Like the Burma Shave of years gone by
The Scribbler's pen is never dry.
A twist of wisdom,
and sometimes a bit of sorrow
Fills the sign post with
wisdom for tomorrow.

As Robert Ingram Perr writes his bit of rhyme
He does so to pass the long winter day's time.
In his burrow, for that is what it is
He ruminates on what never was and what never is.

From time to time he rips the paper from the place
And thrusts it into the maw of the shredder's face.
Unsatisfied with what he has created
His lust for writing is never sated.

But this story is more than just about rhymes along the road
It's about a rabbit whose story needs be told.
For you see RIP as he is called
Was a rabbit that was once treed.

He escaped by wit and a bit of amazing action
That forbid the dogs from gaining traction.
On that spring day as he ventured forth
In search of greens for the hearth,
He chanced upon a magic four leaf clover
Which came to mean so much more.

Picked up that bit of greenery
Intent on adding it to his lady's finery.
Thought he as he progressed,
She will surely be impressed.

But just as he turned to go
Over the hill came the hunter, dogs in tow.
When the scent of Rabbit was gained
No holding back could long be sustained.

Charging down upon RIP
Seemed that this might be his last.
So into a hollow tree did he go
Struggling to avoid the dogs, just so.

As they surrounded this hiding place,
It seemed that with death, he must face.
But chancing to view that clover in his hand
He saw a way out; he had a plan.

Now everyone knows that a rabbit's tail is but a fluff
Of white hair made into a bundle called a tuft.
So RIP carefully removed hair
From here and there,
Until he had what looked like a tail, it's called
As he rolled into a ball.

Of course it would be light and frail
Having no substance as would a rabbit's tail.
Now he crawled up the hollow in the tree
Until he was far above the hunter and his dogs, three.

Made a whistle to attract their attention
Then released the fluff in air suspension.
As it was carried through the air,
The hunter looked on in despair,
As his dogs went quite wild with anger
Knowing not which way to pursue this hairy stranger.

Away they went in hot pursuit
And RIP down the tree did shoot,
Homeward bound was he in a flash
And safely inside, closed the hasp.

But wait, you ask; 'About the four leaf clover,
Tell us what happened before the tale's over.'
Well, you see as is often true
A writer such as RIP will deceive you.
It was used to gain your attention
And keep your interest in suspension.

He did as most rabbits do,
Ate the clover and others too.
For his intended, do not fear
She and others are living near,
And many little rabbits share the name
Of RIP, who gathers fame,
For erecting road signs near and far
So that those who travel by truck or car,
Can be amused in passing by.
Fiction is stranger that truth; I cannot lie.