I wriggle like a cobra to your flute,
Rising from my basket as you sit
Tooting a tune in wailing loop-de-loops.
I scorned your song—but now I dance to it!

Just months ago, I slid along my way
Through shady groves and jungly river beds…
I passed in peace, not dreaming of the day
When manly wiles would guide my moves instead.

Look close: my fangs are pulled; the mimic eyes
That mark my neck no longer kindle fear.
Each morning—tired or lively—I still rise
And strike strange poses, trying to hold you near.

But real charmed snakes are many times more free:
The pipes you sound don’t even play for me!

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