Why do you lie there, fur, blood, and bones?
I guess you didn't run fast enough home.
Thought that you could out-run a Jetta.
Thought you could cheat death; but, death would let ya.

So, sad is the forest that knew your name,
sad are your squirrel babies that will never see you again;
but, let them know you did not die in vane.
No, you died in the break-down lane.

Soon will come a man, with a scoop and a box,
and scrape your squirrel carcass off the hot, black rock,
and pull down the eye lids on your little squirrel face,
and lay you to rest in a better place.

Now I know why you lie there, flattened on your back,
with your smile in the shape of a tire track.
So, I say a prayer for the squirrel that I mourn,
that heaven is filled with a bunch of 8-corns.