The Mosquito's Bite
To tell a story I wield my pen,
Of a poacher who waited outside a den,
He cocked his gun and took his aim,
To shoot an animal he knew was lame.
The pug marks on the mud,
Revealed that it hobbled,
And instantly the poacher knew
That many a time it had stumbled.
Time flew by, the jungle became darker,
The night grew older, the huntsman became wearier.
From inside the den, he heard a soft growl,
And hoped that the tiger would soon be on the prowl.
Out of its home, the predator was on his way,
But little did he know that now he was the prey.