The Taxidermist

A monotonous blur is what he saw,
Winter weather left the outside world blah.
Hours spent chatting about nothing to Fred,
The macaw who slept in his feather bed.
Fame is what the man always dreamed of,
To tell the world ‘bout his animal love.
Covering pages of news and magazine,
Have shows on TV that appeals to a teen,
One of his most outrageous dreams was,
He wanted to show everyone how,
To stuff a moose, quagga, or even cow.
Each day he spent in his workshop below,
He finished something new and had more to show,
For his life’s work or his latest trophy,
A new bear rug or moose head to closely,
Accent a uncovered wall in his home,
And even a brand new tortoise shell comb.
Strange and unusual company he kept,
People coming to visit would take Pept-
Obismal to keep from fainting away.
At home his friends did not often stay.
The halls were lined with hundreds of deer heads.
Another room dedicated to Fred,
And others of his kinfolk and kind.
At first the taxidermist’s full mind,
Might see like a room is empty in there,
Because of his love for dead rat and hare.
His pastime could make someone quite bored,
Or deserving of a psychiatric ward.

For the hours I’d spent listening to ramble,
Suddenly found my ears in a scramble.
Trying to hear what he had to say,
And watching the hair jiggle on his toupee.
"Remember the time that darn Shirley Abernday,
Made that darn law for the Roadkill Café ?
It happened one fine sunny afternoon,
Time for hot coffee with chocolate spoon,
I sat down and finally broke the code,
And straight to the manager’s office I strode.
‘What a horrible thing to attempt to do,
I feel bad for paying customers too,
The waitress said you’d pick up every toad,
All the animals found on the road,
How can you attempt to make roadkill stew?
Are you duffheads what’s the matter with you?’
Speeding through town in his little blue car,
He was so upset he couldn’t see far,
On my cell I called my PETA friends,
All said they’d be there before ends.
The picketers at the entrance all,
Tramped around for hours and still stood tall.
The signs were labeled with quite scary things,
The customers wandered towards other things.
It was at least a day or maybe two,
When management finally said, "You’re through.
Sales are going down - I guess you’ve made
Your point. Our Roadkill Stew has been bade,
Goodbye from our newest menu, taken
Off our board. The cash boxes are achin’
For filling of what we before had.
To tell the truth our income is quite bad.
Victory is finally yours we’ve,
Ended all this madness. You’ve achieved,
All you could ever want or even care.
Just please, please go home and maybe you’ll spare,
Us of any more chants of ‘Dead Rat Parts,
Squirrel liver too, and thirty-two skunk hearts
Are all mixed up well into the brew.’
And now you’ve rid the world of Roadkill Stew."
Shirley Abernday now has met her match,
At last she figured she’d have to scratch
Out of the race. She’s seen what we can
Do, thank God she never made any one man
Run towards the lou, still moving as they threw
Up. And all because of some Roadkill Stew.
As the tall man contemplated that
Day, he jotted his thoughts in a blue, fat
Journal. It all came together on
Quite a brilliant way, his words were logged in
True ballad form, but still try as he might
His words were described as bring quite trite.
He wished to be famous just like Robert Frost,
But in that department, too bad, he lost.
Here’s what he wrote in his entry that day,
Here is what was meant in your mind to stay,
"This pleasant tale I tell you is quite true.
A true as I could very well tell you,
Because it’s over I know that you’re blue,
Tall arrow man with brown hair and Fred too.
He’s told you the story of his Roadkill Stew,
‘Cuz this whole story was silly and dumb,
I thought that I’d try to keep you away from,
Dead animals anywhere in or on
The road and save you from buying a con.
If your wallet might lose a buck or two,
PLEASE! Decline a bowl of Roadkill Stew."