When a wild animal lashes out at you, who’s to blame?
It’s their nature, to attack; it’s in our nature, to blame.
When Man trespasses on their territory, they defend.
Be that as it may, but why then is the creature to blame?
Throw it into a circus, but it won’t dance to your tune.
Just a bad act, they say. But is tonight’s feature to blame?
A hundred people and a dog, it couldn’t go wrong. It’s fine.
Something’s wrong with the dog, they say. Its behavior’s to blame.
She knew the trick and the reward, but this felt dangerous.
Her master didn’t yell. But these people did. The danger of blame.
Hostility attracts hostility, and she bites him.
Suits rush to the scene, in hand, a piece of paper to blame.
Someone shoot that damn dog! Faces are silent. He storms off.
It was too wild a plot: A manuscript failure to blame.
He rages, leaving destruction and debris in his wake.
Others will clean. No matter: The dog, the stranger, to blame.
Suits saw him as a victim, of course. He was King Midas.
They worshipped him and chanted: it wasn’t their savior to blame.
Fear not. They know what earns its stay and makes for good tension.
Ratings first, feelings last. Feel free, at your leisure, to blame.
The silent majority, see Lassie the dog: despair.
Cut! One more time! How does he manage to hate her? To blame?
In cafeterias, he recites his script, mouth still full.
Appeals to his vanity cause a spill: blazer to blame!
Blinded by righteous fame, he rages on to all who’ll hear.
We’ve all built up his persona: A skyscraper to blame.
The dog lies in the shadow of the building. Not dancing.
See through it. It’s the man, not décor and splendor, to blame.