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| Morrisville, Pa. |
| Jan 1988 |
| The Squirrel |
| Awhile ago, |
| he was playing in the tree tops, |
| or darting up a telephone pole |
| to dance along the wires. |
| Chasing his friends around a tree |
| in a game of tag. |
| Chattering at the neighborhood cat. |
| Now he's lying in the road, |
| his body broken by the wheels of a car. |
| He crossed the street without looking. |
| I can't help wondering, |
| if he died fast, |
| or if he suffered. |
| If his friends miss him. |
| Do squirrels mourn? |
| Hunters kill squirrels too, |
| they shoot them out of their |
| playgrounds in the trees. |
| If you ask them "why?" |
| they'll tell you, |
| "I hunt for food." |
| Fifty cents for a shotgun shell, |
| ten dollars an hour for labor. |
| Four squirrels, two pounds of meat, |
| twenty two dollars labor & materials. |
| My God! |
| Does squirrel meat taste that good? |