Serpent He slithers across the floor His hunched form full of false humbleness. Dark, dingy, a mossy green Intercepted by a jewel-like flick, A speck of colour, In an overbearing land of monotone. The lizard with no legs, He creeps, softly, maliciously, Death dripping from his lips. The shadowy predator. Eyes glistening in the night, He waits, he watches. Silent and still, His scales ripple, silky smooth, As he hunts the harvest mouse. A green ninja, with curved razors, and His mouth snaps open, coiling and twisting, Enclosing that tasty morsel.
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Alice Wilson
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