The Driver

The wind bent the branch down and thumped me on the head.

The tire on the Buick rolled the squirrel a squishy dead.

The spirit of the squirrel rose to climb the mighty Oak -

So it wasn’t just the wind that made the branch give me a poke.

 

In remorse  I sold  the Buick - I did it right away.

I’ve never driven anything - ever since that day.

I walk to work, I hike to town, I crawl out of the bars -

And never sit behind the wheel of furry killer cars.

 

My friends and I went golfing, a walking sport indeed.

The air was crisp, the morning cool; there was something in the weeds.

My head was down; my swing was good - for someone short and stocky.

I hit the ball; I missed the moose, unfortunately got Rocky.