Slowly, it turns its head your way—
The beast can smell your fear.
Its lips draw back along its teeth—
It knows that you are near.
With every monstrous step it takes,
The beast imprints the ground;
But even moving earth this way,
It hardly makes a sound.
Its eyes are red in the moonlight,
Pools of the blood they seek.
And the beast is hunting for you,
So small and scared and weak.
Mid-stride it halts and turns to stone—
The beast has heard a noise.
Perhaps you cried or just exhaled—
It listens and enjoys.
So near now, it drools just a bit,
An acrid, slimy rope.
And as the beast rounds the last bend,
It knows you have no hope.
It breaks through brush in one great leap,
And at the sight of you,
The beast knows it was very wrong—
You’re more than it can chew!