A Fable

Securely sunning in a forest glade, A mild, well-meaning snake Approved the adaptations he had made For safety’s sake. He liked the skin he had— Its mottled camouflage, its look of mail, And was content that he had thought to add A rattling tail. The tail was not for drumming up a fight; No, nothing of the sort. And he would only use his poisoned bite As last resort. A peasant now drew near, Collecting wood; the snake, observing this, Expressed concern by uttering a clear But civil hiss. The simple churl, his nerves at once unstrung, Mistook the other’s tone And dashed his brains out with a deftly-flung Pre-emptive stone. Moral Security, alas, can give A threatening impression; Too much defense-initiative Can prompt aggression.