Weasel

Weasel's a consummate predator Foodcomes to him like little gifts in the grass He rears stock-still, sensing a sudden movement Like a Delhi worker hearkening for a train At dusk there is a loss about to happen A rabbit, a hen, a rat Gone into his slim white belly Weasel is magic, is shape shifter Changes from statue to fury in a blink Brings death with a flash of fangs He is bloodthirsty, mesmerising He dances his cunning war dance, a small Svengali Tenacious, ferocious, he'll kill much larger prey Weasel. He slays for pleasure as much as need.