I am a lioness you say.
I hunt for my pride, but I look in
boxes I had long put up for winter,
forgetting it was November. 

I am a lioness you say.
Blood drips from my muzzle
as I lope through the herd of
blissfully unaware sheep.

I am a lioness you say.
I dress myself daily in the wools
of my hunt from the day before,
being sure to hide my fangs. 

I am a lioness you say.
I am still hunting for my pride.
It seems you, one of the sheep,
has ripped it from me.