My beak’s a single fang I sink in artery or vein
And none suspect me of this drink but clinically insane
And paranoid-type fantasists whom no one else believes
When they accuse the pretty bird that flits in flowers and leaves.
Though tiny as a bumblebee, I may grow round and bloated;
The nectar of your heart is how I keep my Ruby-Throated
Good looks and family heritage (and, not the least, my name),
My shapely belly and my speed of flying fast as flame.
It’s not that I’m nefarious, invidious or rude,
But merely that I have a taste for human blood as food,
And do not fear: I’d never kill you outright when I dine—