A rabbit in the fields, soft whiskers, quiet eyes, still when the world offends it, A clearer sound will come forth.
No longer merely the shy. No longer little or timid, the swearing rabbit stomps its foot, refusing fear altogether.
Its words might shatter the quiet. Its rage shatters the atmosphere; one made for running opting not to give a damn now.
It is commanding that being humble is a class. where silent spirits even lives Control stuff that they can't conceal.
The might of the cursing rabbit is not in claw or teeth, but in the unfiltered confession of every injury it noticed. Laugh therefore, but do not make fun of it.
Its rage is its shield. a voice that's proclaiming that some are in pain and pain won't be closed