As I pass you each day, I feel compelled to say,
the thousands of volts that passed through your body, left your coat a little shoddy.
I don’t know what inspired you to grab two lines, warnings are useless as squirrels don’t read signs.
Your life was precarious, the threats were many and various: cars, busses and weak-limbed trees — not to mention ongoing issues with your increasing crop of fleas.
When I go past what’s left of you I stay to the side, knowing a hat made of fried squirrel is not something I can abide.