Once again, we have a skunk in the vicinity. Maybe under the front porch, maybe under the back deck. But the smell came floating into the house about 2:00 last night, so thick it woke me up. We opened the windows, started up the exhaust fan, and spread the moth balls around outside. It is better tonight, but still annoying.
I haven't written a poem in years, but for some reason was moved to write this tonight:
The Missed Putt
I think that God had lost a bet
when He made His foulest creature yet.
"You lose!" yelled Satan full of glee,
"Now make a thing that smells like me!"
Last time God lost, He heaved a sigh
And conjured up the lowly fly.
(God lost a pool match in disgrace --
The buzzard met his homely face.
He missed a free throw at the horn,
The warthog from a pig was born.)
This time, God was forced to start
With black, from Satan's evil heart.
A smallish body, slung quite low,
Four short legs for moving slow.
(Though not the kind of guy to boast,
God thought the face was cute, almost.)
"Come on, come on -- now make it smell,"
The devil squealed. "Should smell like Hell!"
God took the smells He like the least
To inject in the little beast.
Rotten veggies, burning tires,
Mixed with sulfur from Hell's fires.
"That's foul!" the devil then agreed.
"They won't forgive you for this deed!
They'll say, 'It must be God's wrath'
and take the tomato juice bath!"
Satan danced, began to gloat;
God bent to touch coal-black coat
To add a stripe of white to show
The world what only God could know:
Despite the worst smell in the land,
The skunk is still part of His plan.
So when you come upon his smell,
Just thank the skunk you aren't in Hell.
And in Heaven, I suppose
the skunk will smell just like the rose.