Ravenously Meta

Traipsing past the shrubbery
Concealing the ambuscade,
The tongue trips on the trap line

As soon as the teeth bite down
On the squirming bait. Poor fox,
Now what will become of you?

The snare is sprung. The net flings
Itself over decoy and all,
And there you are, prankster, beast

Who thought you were cunning, when
Really you were just hungry,
Having forgotten again

That larger hungers use lures
To snarf little hunger’s end.