Off topic, and I'm certainly no poet, but I wanted to write this and remember this event fondly.
It seemed almost idyllic as I laid upon my bed,
to listen to that squirrel each night run above my head.
He seemed so energetic, frisky and even spry,
It never did occur to me, he was about to die.
Until one fateful evening as I opened up my door,
I could hardly stand for noticing a very strong odor.
For sometime earlier it seems, the little tyke had died,
Right above the heads where two children would soon lie.
They covered their noses and they coughed, frowning all the while,
While one struggled to hold down, a sudden burst of bile.
They glared at me and announced that my house badly smelled,
I stood convinced that just to wait would bode me very well.
Until that next chilly morning, as I worked to breakfast soon,
I really quite unthinkingly heated up the room.
We all three grew so quiet as the house grew warm and rank,
With that warmed up smell of something dead, our stomachs quickly sank.
Quickly we fled the house; the smell of cinnamon and death
When suddenly a happy thought, stole away my breath.
What a memory this would be, surely one to cherish,
All because that frisky tyke, unhappily had to perish.