The Squirrel

I was traipsing along

For a cup of coffee,

When I spotted a squirrel

Whose coat was like toffee.

Transfixed by his stare,

I halted in place

And felt deeply scared

By the look on his face.

His eyes were beady,

His soul was dead.

He shook his fanny

And cocked his head.

“It’s just a squirrel,”

I quietly muttered.

“No match for this girl,”

I thought as I shuddered.

But alas, he leapt

From his lofty perch,

Like a beast that’d been kept

In a cage made of birch.

He flew through the air

Like a bat out of Hell!

I filled with despair,

And wanted to yell!

His paws met the earth.

By this move I was rankled,

And I watched as this jerk

Wrapped himself ‘round my ankle.

I braced for a bite,

Thought he surely had rabies.

But he punched with the might

Of a couple of babies.

Then off he ran,

My ankle unscathed.

“Whoa!” yelled a man

Who’d witnessed my plague.

I stood there frozen,

Wanting to hurl.

I’d survived being chosen

By an attack squirrel.

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