Squirrel king

My apple tree branches droop more than before,

Some broken on the ground, on the lawny floor.

The mud is covered with tracks pretty deep,

Indentations where the water does seep.

The bird feeder fell down to the damp grass,

The tallow ball missing, shards of glass.

The big birch tree is leaning on its side,

On which pinecones lie, eaten and dried.

A big enough pile to hide a big cat,

Made by a squirrel so very fat.

A swollen squirrel in my yard,

Breaking trees, stealing the lard.

Jelly-belly tree rat eating trees bare,

Eating your chair if you don’t take care.

I saw it rolling from tree to another,

I pointed this out to my young baby brother,

He cracked up like I knew he would,

A squirrel as fat as the friend of Robin Hood,

Fat and fluffy it rolled downhill,

Rolled pretty fast, that is until,

It had to climb a tree, a bit too much,

Summoned its servants to act as a crutch.

A squadron of sparrows swooped down from the sky,

Lifted it up and said no bye bye.

In its throne, the far, furry king,

Waving a scepter of an old bee’s sting,

Pine cone crown rounds its big ears,

It has ruled my garden for many years,

And it will, barring a stroke,

That its fat just might provoke.


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