Vermin nosher, garden-diggin’, love to kill ’im;
for him I have got no use; he makes me cwy.
He gwabs my cache of cawwots; I gnash teeth—gallin’.
Gotta ply my shotgun and cause him to die.

(And his cwuel fate: bullet strike!)

He’s out there and having lunch, this wodent tewwow
and gorging on my food stores; I seek weport
of my wod for this hare who there gathers
great big cawwots, cawotene fare.
I keep missing, so there’s no blood splatters.
Scourge, blight; all I can do is seek a last wesort.

Wiffwaff wabbit wecks wich-weap wewawd!

I’ll call the bird with the black head, off his wocker:
loon Daffy—boy, he’s well-named, a zany sort.
We will stake out our turf and then measure
how my weapon wastes wascal hare.
I’ll pump slay slugs his way. Here comes the blast!
Weapon ain’t missed; I’ll sit in bliss and dwink some port.

Oh f**k! I shot the duck—bad luck; the time is short
till wascal wabbit wites a wit and I’m in court.