The Leopard and His Spots

They say a leopard doesn’t change his spots,

But he does take care to paint them on.
He watches from the swaying grass
Choosing which disguise to don.

His eyes are sharp and yellow,
Yellow as decay,
His teeth are black and putrid,
Bloodied from his slays.

For now he sits in the shadows,
And learns as he observes,
Giving each animal the attention
And close study they deserve.

While he listens to their stories,
He smiles a flashy grin,
And laughs quietly because he knows
How to sneak his way on in.

And then he lifts his artist’s brush
Heavy with ink and sin,
To design a pattern of sordid spots
Upon his well-groomed skin.

The gazelles did not see him coming,
The antelopes still played;
He blends in, stalking them,
Waiting for one to stray.

Then out he runs and chases them,
Their patterns he all know,
And so his jaws close swiftly
In a quick and mortal blow.

Back to the safe and lengthy grass
He drags his wide-eyed kills.
He chuckles to himself
Amid the murderous thrill:

“It is a well-kept secret
that I am good at what I do.
I paint my spots exactly right,
For the victims that I choose.”