Pity This Idle Bunny Not

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 Billy was feeling reflective so he walked to the stoneyard and thought on Those That Came Before.  He is meditating on a favorite poem of his.  He is remembering it wrong, but he does have the gist of it, although his memory has changed the entire meaning.

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
—- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                         A world of made
is not a world of born —- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if —- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
 
pity this busy monster, manunkind
 
 e.e. cummings, 1944 

Like all the talking animals, Billy has never seen a man.  They died out long ago, and just now are their words being deciphered and understood.  Why this rabbit is reading poetry when he is supposed to be memorizing the formula for gunpowder is anyone's guess, although I suspect Billy is obstinate and self important.  Hell, suspect nothing, this is one screwed up rabbit!

 

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