I am slithering around your ankles, in the dirt, while you, like a giant, so insurmountable, trample through my garden. I hiss while you scream. You aim for my head while I scramble towards flesh. The problem with being a snake in the grass is: as soon as you see me, I am no longer a threat. Perhaps I was never a threat to begin with, either. Perhaps you should leave grassy fields to the snakes like me. Perhaps you are the threat, and I am merely a solution.
But I do not think you see me. I do not think you hear me. I, unseen and unheard, am still punished with the pejorative of being a snake in the grass. You did not know I existed until I my teeth sank in. Me? I have been lying here, in wait, watching you for years. I have not been waiting for my moment to strike, either. I have merely been waiting for you to go away. Yet you did not.
My teeth in your flesh is not the problem in this scenario. My teeth are what feed me, and you, dear sir, have been trampling unchecked in this grass for far too long. So here I come, out of the dirt and into the heavens.