Run, bunny, run. You’re a big buck coney with paws as fleet as windrush and blood as hot as sunshine. When my father comes with his ferrets and his net you’d best not be here, munching on tussocks between the pillow mounds, twitching your bunny nose with that devil-may-get-me flare.
There’s a flash of grey on your rump that says you’re wise to the ways of the warrener but let me share the lesson of my own short life. No matter what you do, or don’t do, he’ll be the one to decide what happens next. Unless you can be canny and learn how to hide.
Don’t let my father skin you to trim his fancy woman’s gown and to felt his own best hat. He’d smite you into portions and then feed you to the pot. Your flesh would be boiled in broth until its tender and then served forth. So, run, bunny, run, as fast as you can. Return to your burrow, retire to your chambers and stay safe inside.