The Squirrels: A Poem
NARRATOR SITTING AT DESK: Someone should pry these dead squirrels from the street before they become a part of it.
DEAD SQUIRREL #1: 12 cars, one by one, have Klattened me and molded my skin to the rough pavement! I’m afraid to forcefully rip my body from the asphalt. I’m just going to sit here.
DEAD SQUIRREL #2: The other Klattened squirrels, of course, they’re dead. But I like to believe I’m alive.
NARRATOR AT CITY MAINTENANCE OFFICE: Someone please pry these dead squirrels from the street before they become a part of it! You could use a spatula!
DEAD SQUIRREL #3: A Klimsy spatula won’t tear me from this frying pan.
DEAD SQUIRRELS #4—A LARGE NUMBER: My tissues are gooping into the cracks. Burnt rubber is no good for aromatherapy. And the taste is like undercooked scrambled eggs! You know how they sometimes taste like blood?
NARRATOR ON SIDEWALK NEXT TO A ROAD: This is disgusting. I can’t look anymore. I’m covering my eyes until they’re gone . . . Have you Kinally pried the dead squirrels from the street? Or have they just become a part of it?
GUY WITH SPATULA: I’m sorry, sir. They won’t budge! Let me tell you, gravity isn’t helpin’ one bit!
BETTER NARRATOR: And so, the dead squirrels became a part of it. For most of them, the lifestyle they have been forced into is pure agony. Others are content because they are at least a part of something.
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