While walking Spats the other night,
We came upon a gruesome sight:
A carcass, much the worse for wear
Of an opossum − lying there,
A mess of blood and fur and skin,
Some bones and guts (more out than in).
The possum's not a handsome beast,
And even less so when deceased.
So safe to say, I wasn't keen
To loiter at the gory scene.
I pulled the leash and glibly said,
"Take care, boy − he may not be dead."
We started on to make our way
Until we heard, "Ho! Ho! I say,
Well played, sir! Yes the laugh's on me!"
With that, we spun around to see
The possum − standing! − to profess,
"The evening's turned out pleasant, yes?
As you can tell from my physique,
I've had a rather trying week.
I can't deny it hurts, although
You know the saying: 'K.B.O.'
A few days' rest should put me right,
So I've no time for jokes − good night."
We stood and stared, my dog and I,
Astonished as he tottered by.
And truth be told, I've little doubt
Some rest at home will sort him out,
And soon he will rejoin the fray
To do such things as possums may.
Perhaps, dear reader, even you
Have had to die a time or two;
Accept what slings and arrows come
From earnest foe, deceitful chum,
Or chance − but like the possum, scoff,
Relax, and let it all roll off.
You'll have some cuts and bumps to nurse,
But you'll endure – things could be worse!
Sometimes endurance is enough;
May all of us be just as tough –
In possum or in human milieu,
You can't let all that's lethal kilieu!