Remembering his taste for blood
You'd better bait him with a cow;
Persuade the brute to chew the cud
Her tail suspended from a bough;
It thrills the lion through and through
To hear the milky creature moo.

Having arranged this simple ruse,
Yourself you climb a neighboring tree;
See to it that the spot you choose
Commands the coming tragedy;
Take up a smallish Maxim gun,
A search-light, whisky, and a bun.

It's safer, too, to have your bike
Standing immediately below,
In case your piece should fail to strike,
Or deal an ineffective blow;
The Lion moves with perfect grace,
But cannot go the scorcher's pace.

Keep open ear for subtle signs;
Thus, when the cow profusely moans,
That means to say, the Lion dines.
The crunching sound, of course, is bones;
Silence resumes her ancient reign—
This shows the cow is out of pain.

But when a fat and torpid hum
Escapes the eater's unctuous nose,
Turn up the light and let it come
Full on his innocent repose;
Then pour your shot between his eyes,
And go on pouring till he dies.

Play, even so, discretion's part;
Descend with stealth; bring on your gun;
Then lay your hand above his heart
To see if he is really done;
Don't skin him till you know he's dead
Or you may perish in his stead!

Years hence, at home, when talk is tall,
You'll set the gun-room wide agape,
Describing how with just a small
Pea-rifle, going after ape
You met a Lion unaware,
And felled him flying through the air.

Owen Seaman.