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.