Crusader Rabbit

I picked up my first stray when I was five, and it promptly died.

He was a fine catch, as strays go -

Strong in spirit, eminently playful, relatively grateful;

But he soon discovered the highway the hard way,

And I discovered that traffic does not slow down for grieving boys.

As my growing was given out to me, my strays took on other shapes.

Impractical birds with one good wing, indecipherable bluegill and bass;

Indecisive chickens and the occasional Easter bunny -

To each, I gave my pre-adolescent heart and cartoon soul,

Until they had reached their respective Heavens.

And now I find my strays are called people.

These are the ones who don't respond to makeshift bandages,

Or necessarily appreciate the off-key comfort songs

Of cradling crusader rabbits with haloes to match.

Let them go, let them go, you must let them go -

They are strays, and will carry you off to their own funerals-

They are strays, and will find other chocolate-covered hands to feed them -

Let them go, let them go, you must let them go -

They are strays, and filled with the rage of previous owners -

They are strays, and drunk with the knowledge of other highways.

What I have done, I have done for Love.

And what I failed to do, (oh, what I failed to do)

Why I did that for Love as well.

(Love sure takes a beating from crusader hypocrites like me.)