A Squirrel Named Putin
Cursing in squirrel...
He's claimed the tulip tree for his own.
I've named him Putin.
He blames me when the petals fall.
When the weather turns foul. When the seeds are lean.
When sustenance heads deep underground.
He even blames me for his twitching tail and poor posture.
My roof is his autobahn.
It craps on my porch daily.
Chewed a hole in my gilded eave.
I once set out a live trap. And caught a skinny red robin instead...
From his tree, Putin twitched his hammer-and-sickle tail and laughed.
It's passed along the game to its progeny
They profit handsomely off my misery.
I patch the eaves...occasionally.
I think I'll bring in the steel teeth, put away the live traps.
And snap comrade Putin's little furry neck.
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