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Dead possum on the road…
Waiting to explode
In the hot sun,
And get that business of dying done.
And it’s a good reminder,
When a possum dies,
To place one hand across your eyes
And the other over your nose;
Precious little there is of the rose
In a dead possum.
And I wonder:
Was its nocturnal blunder,
Its death, like thunder?
Might it not have been cross
It so suffered life’s loss?
That it dawdled across…
And wound up possum sauce,
Thus wounding its pride
It so ghoulishly, foolishly died
On the road?
And yet, strange to say,
This hot posthumous day,
I’m not sorry I saw some
Old dead possum
On the road…
Waiting to explode
In the hot sun,
And get that business of dying done.
Still, it’s a good reminder,
When a possum dies,
To place one hand across sore eyes
And the other over your nose.
Precious little there is of the rose
In a dead possum.
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