There was a white rabbit,
His name was Jim,
The hunters, they shot,
And tried to kill him.

He hopped away,
As quick as he could,
Away from the hunters,
And out of the wood.

He came to a town,
Perched on a hill,
It had roof tops and steeples,
With bells that did trill.

For all of his hurry,
Jim was in awe,
After such danger,
His stomach was raw.

Nearest to Jim,
Was the patisserie,
The sight of a pastry,
Made his gut sing with glee.

So up he went,
Silent and fast,
But alas his good luck,
It just could not last.

Out of the woods,
Came the hunters, in tow,
They had followed him,
There was nowhere to go.

So he sat with the pastries,
As still as he could,
Till he was snatched up,
By a girl, in a hood.

So fuzzy and warm,
So soft was he,
That this little girl,
Knew he was no pastry.

She bundled him up,
And spoke soothing words,
About burrows and rivers,
Of beasts and of birds.

Till he fell asleep,
And lay still as a doll,
Then she brought him home,
To show dear uncle Paul.

"That is the rabbit,
I've hunted all day,
My girl, with these beasts,
You sure have a way."