Critters

What a miserable day the weatherman has sent,
I don’t know what is wrong, with the old gent.
All night long the rain came down,
Anything but ducks would drown.

I was up this morning, at first daylight,
The snow was falling with all its’ might.
The trees were drooping, with the heavy stuff,
I don’t like to kick, but enough’s enough.

The deer were huddled beneath the thickest firs.
The looked dejected as beaten curs.
Too miserable to lie on the sodden ground,
So they just stood like ghosts around.

Not a single squirrel have I seen all day.
I suppose they are all tucked away.
In their cozy nests, so snug and warm,
Where the cold and wet, can’t do them harm.

I think they are smarter than us bipeds,
They know enough to stay in their comfy beds.
Hidden away in a hole so deep,
Where nothing is apt to disturb their sleep.

While we silly mortals, must be up and about,
Cussing the weather and staring out,
Through the windows, at the falling snow,
Wishing that we could be on the go.

Guess I am about as bad as all the rest,
At fuming and ranting, I’ve done my best.
But I’ve found it does no good to curse,
It’s a ‘hell of a day’, “but it could be worse”.

Copyright KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

Mistreated Pup

It was the middle of winter and awfully bleak,

The water was frozen, in pond and creek.

The snow was deep, frigid and white,

As the little pup suffered alone in the night.

He had been thrown from a big shining car,

Had landed in a ditch, with a bonebreaking jar.

The car sped away, was soon out of sight,

Leaving the broken legged puppy, in a terrible plight.

He whimpered and moaned, and howled with pain

But there was no kind soul, to hear him complain.

Many cars sped by, carrying the poor and the rich,

But the pup wasn’t noticed, down there in the ditch.

The night grew colder, down to thirty below.

The pup still lay there, nearly buried in the snow.

He just had to endure, the pain in his leg,

It did not good, to whimper and beg.

He finally got drowsy, and dropped off to sleep.

The bright winking stars, did their vigilance keep.

Soon there was no sign, of heartbeat or breath,

The poor little pup, was frozen to death.

The lad who drove that shining limousine,

Was rich, lived alone, and dressed like a queen.

She loved to parade, in her diamonds and furs,

But had no time, for children or “curs”.

She spent most of her time, at card parties and clubs,

Was not a bit stingy, with her snobbery and snubs.

Yet she who had left, that pup in the lurch.

Was also a member, of her towns’ “richest” church.

On Sundays she would sit, a pious look on her face,

Her clothes the finest, to be seen in the place.

Diamonds flashed on her hands, pearls encircled her neck,

In the collection box she always dropped a fat check.

She thinks her money, will be Heavens’ passport.

I can just her ‘St. Peter’, give a disgusted snort,

As he says, “Remember that puppy, and the ditch where he fell?

Your money is no good here, take it with you to Hell!”

When she arrives, in the ‘infernal regions’,

She won’t fry alone, she’ll be among the legions,

Who lost their chance, of angels to see,

By mistreating dumb animals, that’s the final decree.

KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

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A Coyote in Yellowstone

Far above the valley,

And broadcast the news about his kill,

A call for kin to rally.

From across a canyon to the north,

An answer comes a ringing.

From the south, and east, and west,

Come echoes of their singing.

One by one they gathered ‘round,

The bleeding doe there on the ground.

And ate their fill, ‘mid snarling sound.

Two deer less next year.

-KB, Scribblings from a Hermit’s Pen, 1968