Flesh eating moose

Nine hundred pounds of hairy and smelly,

Muscles everywhere except on its swollen belly.

The head held high and two feet higher,

Horns of steel sharp like razor wire.

The part that’s abnormal is in its hard head,

A normal moose doesn’t want you dead.

Flesh eating moose is a northern quirk.

For a thing so big, it knows how to lurk.

When you’re picking berries blue or cloudy,

It’s behind the bushes just thinking “Howdy,

You look tasty with your tender meat,

The last thing I’ll eat are your tiny feet.”

Seventeen thousand people in a year,

Succumb, in the forests, to the ancient fear.

It’s no wonder it’s a god in the north.

Just his image brings our tears forth.


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