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There are two species of the Snoot, the Common and the Rare.
Both smirkly seethe, and lurk beneath veneers of savoir faire.
A mobile, upward pest whose nest is egged behind a gate,
the Common’s miffed bravado mimics fingernails on slate;

while Rares stalk salmon canapés with slender silver spoons
and lair in fine department stores on Sunday afternoons.
The two will spat like dogs and cats, or Rivendell and Mordor.
They’re prone to murder for ascendance in the pecking order.

The Lion and the Unicorn have nothing on the Snoot
for fighting over nothing and for making much of moot
with poison dripping from each glance, their nostrils in the air.
Go gingerly about the Snoot, the Common and the Rare.