Cheryl Patrick

A Wolf’s Defence

Good day to you, bold hunter, noble woodsman, master trapper —
And may I say you look, today, most devilishly dapper?
It’s jolly nice to see you, though I think it might be more so,
Without your crossbow cocked and aimed directly at my torso.

I recognise you’re angry and consider me a sinner;
I know you think Red Riding Hood’s a lousy choice of dinner.
You’d rather I ate fruit and veg or something nice and branny.
I guess I should confess I got my fibre from the granny.

But listen to my story, Sir, before you try to stage a
Projectiled perforation of my pectoralis major.
Miss Riding Hood was tasty, true — I can’t deny the flavour,
But if I just explain, you’ll find I’m doing you a favour.

Just ponder, for a period, a wood with no predation
Where kids cavort and caper — not a sign of trepidation;
Where, unperturbed by terror of a lupine intervention,
They wend their way through woods with insufficient apprehension.

With girls allowed to gallivant and maunder in this manner,
They won’t reduce their ramblings to seeing dear old Nana.
They’ll drink; they’ll shoot up heroin; they’ll form illicit covens;
They’ll stagger home with buns inside their syphilitic ovens.

My duty is to warn you, Sir — these perils are inherent
When women go a-wandering without a wolf deterrent.
And would you want her pregnant, drunk, infected or infested?
I think you’ll see — you must agree — she’s better off digested.