The blood still daubed upon his face, Still tasting guilt and shame, He stalked his second prey by moonlight. They’d had to make him drink, Thought him not yet a man, Though he’d hunted well. He’d show them now — No weapon but his knife, Done at night, Done boldly, swiftly, without mercy. He’d be a man. He’d be a man. A rustling past a bush told him he was near. A glimpse of her, and something in the air. He was close. He was close. Moving quiet as the night, Disturbing not a leaf, not a branch, He circled round so the breeze would blow towards him, not her. He thought he could outrun her, But to catch her unaware, Would make the story better. The story he would tell. Better than theirs. The perfect hunt. Crouching low, he worked himself close enough to see her feet And springing high, Pounced upon her back, Forcing her to the soft earth. Twisting her brutally around, To relish the fear in her eyes As he brought his knife to her throat, He ripped down her pants and Thrust his weapon home Again and again, as she screamed. The story he would tell. Better than theirs. The perfect hunt.