Making Roadkill

Shambling down the roadside

Cheering as he goes

A manic, flailing cretin

In filthy, tattered clothes

Dead things are his playmates

He takes them in his care

Clutching limbs and tails

He whips roadkill through the air

He uses them in puppet shows

Hung around his shack

Stuffs his backpack full of fur

Some bloody—most are flat

Tied onto his belt of rope

A skirt of sunbaked stink

Running out of furry friends

He strokes their pelts and thinks

Setting makeshift traps

He titters and he claps

Birdies, fish, and rats

Are crammed in burlap sacks

He drags the critters to the street

Waits for cars to pass

Then throws them at the tire wells

It kills them very fast

Sometimes lucky animals

Scurry past unharmed

Cretin screams and gives up chase

But catching them is hard

Drags them from their dens

Yanks them from their pens

They bite his scabby hand

He tosses them again

One day running after prey

A stormy winter day

An orange van hits the man

And breaks both of his legs

He drags himself back to his fort

Despite the biting pain

And wraps himself in animals

Roadkill that he made