Beneath the mildest moons of five years ripe
There thrived in solitude a squirrel unique
And different from all others of his type
In that he wore a coat of black fur sleek.
The only beast of his rare color here,
He passed his days in fame amid our midst
And his became to us a face so dear.
Until one morning verdant with spring bliss,
When, sped on by the slippered soles of fate,
One black van roaring at a reckless pace
Layed flat the nimble squirrel beneath its weight
As he came running, swift with fatal grace.
His famous pelt was plastered to the street,
His soul rose up; eternal peace to greet.