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Aw, now! That ain't fair.

Here you had me thinkin' the squirrel was a goner.

Well , I might as well throw this away, then ...

Could you do verse about my Black Lab, Solitaire catching a squirrel on Easter morning....

Ante Up, Solitaire!

On a merry Sunday morning, Black Death came to call,
Among the tribe of farmers who’ve been patient since the Fall.
With Springtime come upon us, who would not have felt the joy,
And been remiss in watchfulness, and cautions to employ?

So now we lay to rest our late beloved, Skitterin’,
Who falls to an inevitable and awful bitter end.
We try to give the warnings, we move about in fear,
And still another one of us falls early in the year.

It is our lot in life, they say, the predators must win,
Our only hope in fighting back is simply to begin,
More new lives with a confidence, indeed a battle cry!
You have not heard the last of us, we people of the sky!

You lot may rule the underworld, but we live in the air,
And we are closer to the heaven where we send our prayer.
Some day we all will unify, in a gatherings of souls,
And won’t the predators be stunned to find the switching of the roles.

As lightning death sweeps down upon the running dogs of war,
To show them we can turn about, and show what air is for.
We will become as Eagles! Even shadows will cause fear.
And dogs will tremble at the sight of shadows drawing near.

From the Eulogy for Skitterin’,
As read by the Council of Squirrels,
Of McKinsey Park . . . . . . April 16, 2006