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It's been said before how scary it must be for tiny mammals, vulnerable as they are in a city with elephants and rhinos stomping about. Seems it could cut the other way, too.
Wolfsbane: A Nursery Rhyme
by trashweasel
There’s a beast in the house of a lonely old mouse in a sad part of Little Rodentia
That has nary a friend but a blind pangolin and his father (who’s ill with dementia).
There’s a tiny black hole where there should be a soul at the center of more decent folk,
And a rusted gray bin he keeps chemicals in among substances purchased in bulk.
In his thin, stilted prose he has written of those who, in ill luck, have caught his attention.
Read by none but himself, they adorn half a shelf next to objects in liquid suspension.
Though he’s not tasted meat, there are things just as sweet that can neither be bartered nor bought,
And no great, toothy maw or swift predator’s claw could help catch him the prey that he sought.
For a mammal his size, it should be no surprise he can easily go undetected,
So it wasn’t a struggle to get himself smuggled into the old building selected.
There’s a pit dark as pitch where a mouse heart should twich ‘neath a collared shirt buttoned and pressed.
And a hole in the wall in a room down the hall where a predator sleeps and gets dressed.
There’s a grim photo spread at the foot of the bed of a young wolf in cold Tundra Town,
Who was rigid and blue and refused to come to when discovered in her dressing gown.
The grey glossy photos to those in the know connote patience and cunning and skill.
If their eyes were more keen, they perhaps would have seen rodent footprints on her windowsill.
As a creature of habit, the fox and the rabbit were learning his method and means.
If they knew not his motive, he still was devoted to laying a setting and scene.
The canid in red almost missed what she said of the one thing the killer had shown them,
A wink and a nod to the rabbit and tod: a flower of A. lycoctonum.
