First， grant me my sense of history：
I did it for posterity，
for kindergarten teachers
and a clear moral：
Little girls shouldn't wander off
in search of strange flowers，
and they mustn't speak to strangers.
And then grant me my generous sense of plot：
Couldn't I have gobbled her up
right there in the jungle？
Why did I ask her where her grandma lived？
As if I， a forest-dweller，
didn't know of the cottage
under the three oak trees
and the old woman lived there
all alone？
As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before？
And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf，
now my only reputation.
But I was no child-molester
though you'll agree she was pretty.
And the huntsman：
Was I sleeping while he snipped
my thick black fur
and filled me with garbage and stones？
I ran with that weight and fell down，
simply so children could laugh
at the noise of the stones
cutting through my belly，
at the garbage spilling out
with a perfect sense of timing，
just when the tale
should have come to an end.