tell me about the rabbits, George

Bunnies. We've got bunnies. We've got lots and lots of bunnies. From darling little fur balls no bigger than a powderpuff, all the way up to that mangy old jackrabbit who stands 4 feet tall and spits tobacco juice in the neighbor's pit bull's eye, bunnies by the hundreds reside here on our bucolic little rabbit farm high in the hills of suburban California.

At last count we were host to at least 4, possibly as many as 12 generations of free-range rabbits, all happily residing deep within the hedges, down under the deck, high up in the flower pots and soon, under the bed. In fact, the other evening I counted no less than 97 bunnies of every shape, size, religion and political persuasion devouring the remains of our tiny postage stamp of what was once a lawn. At least I'm pretty sure that was the number of bunnies; we were kicking back with a couple of cold ones at the time and that number may be slightly skewed in direct relation to the number of cold ones consumed. There is probably a precise mathematical formula by which one might compute an actual Rabbits-to-Dos Equis ratio, but that is beyond my range of expertise and really not the point. I don't even know why you brought it up.

The point is, there are a lot of bunnies.

And so, with the music of Tiny Bubbles playing in my brain (in every sense of the term) I wrote them a little ditty, called Tiny Bunnies.

They're just lucky they're so damn cute.