Badger Alley

Found this chill autumn’s morning,

My fancy takes you for lost

in mourning for the cull.

Poor Brock; dead of a broken heart.

Reality is roadkill.

Fit now only for shaving brush and paint

Not a scratch nor a tear in that double-breasted pelt.

Flayed now a fortnight by nature’s course,

Deep, rank and meaty in the hedge

Bloated you shine; ripening to burst.

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