These are the thoughts of a Texas transplant in West Michigan who makes his living as a newspaper reporter by evening, and a struggling novelist by day.

Sunday, August 13, 2006


Oh Efrafan, Efrafan, your people live in despair,
Suffering under a controlling one,
Who goes by the name of Woundwart, like a large hare,
It is the place where all around shun.

Your runs cut into the hillside deep,
Made sure to be separated one from another,
So all are kept apart when they sleep,
Disuading conversation between a son and a mother.

An uprising easily is quelled,
A traitor's ears clipped,
For Woundwart sall does smell,
And everyone fooled and slipped.

Woundwart sits atop the heap,
His angry swowl across his face,
Ready to stomp on anyone and leap,
Even though deep down he's full of disgrace.

For Woundwart's tact is that of a bully,
One whose childhood marked by pain,
Never understanding he's foolish ways fully,
He knows one tact and continues it again and again.

Never seeing those within feel morale is low,
Thinking all is well since he runs the show,
Days go by and it all seems to flow,
But the ones within despise, but he doesn't know.

But the time comes when Woundwart falls,
For all bullies topple like a coward,
With the warren's runs amuck and also halls,
It's time to move forward.

And the time comes nay for the revolt,
At the hands of an unexpected foe,
when all will leave their quarters and bolt,
Nary will remain a buck or doe.

Defeated, lowly Woundwart, you cry aloud,
'Why has this plan come to be for me so big?'
If you sit still, you'll see the all the crowd,
It's Hazel, Fiver and that slayer of all, Bigwig.

Lifeless Efrafan, you will be no more,
Runs crumble and dens fall to waste,
Efrafan you were rotten to the core,
Now, we all run off to Wastership Down in haste.


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