The Weasel is in the Coupe

A Poem by Remi D

wanted: illustrations

There is no chicken for the soup
The weasel is in the coup,
Shoot shoot shoot
The weasel,
Skin its wired hide,
Peel the meat right off its bone,
I think I'll have mine fried!
Maybe minced put in a cone?
Would I then be satisfied?
Should I eat it all alone?
Or in a place that's occupied?
Too many questions then I sighed,
So I threw it to the floor!
Only then to realize
I was in the place I was before,
Without any chicken for the soup
And a coup with an open door,
But now I have a decaying weasel
Rotting on the floor!