My daddy said "Indians kill only when necessary for substance, for food. Never forget that we are what we eat, we must give genuine, sincere thanks to those creatures whose lives give way for our survival. To do otherwise is a crime against nature." I could never eat a rabbit.
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Momma said, from her bed,
“Child, never split a hare!
Should you look, find their lair,
they’ve no guns. It’s no fair!”

We had no meat to eat;
rabbit would be a treat.
‘Twould melt in our mouths, sweet;
smelt better than our feet
(sucking toes, is not neat).

Momma said, from her bed,
“Child, never split a hare!
Should you look, find their lair,
they’ve no guns. It’s no fair!”

Hunger is a driver,
to be a survivor,
surely we could fool her.
Nothing bad would occur;
rabbits are but suckers.

Momma said, from her bed,
“Child, never split a hare!
Should you look, find their lair,
they’ve no guns. It’s no fair!”

After we et the rabbit,
Daddy Hare, Mr. Babbit,
came, we slept, he’d had it!
Pulled me home, “Sit!” “Sat it.”
“Habit? Killing rabbits?”

“No, Momma always said,
“Child, never split a hare!
Should you look, find their lair,
they’ve no guns. It’s no fair!”

“Kill more, join your Daddy.
I'm rabbit, as you see,
for I looked, found their lair
and I split a hare’s hair.”