Little pile of fur lying in the road,
What kind of debt could you have possibly owed?
To find yourself now in such a horrid state.
Your little life ending in this terrible fate.
Sitting quietly on that exact spot,
Slow cooked by the sun as on the road you rot.
Maggots now feed slowly on what little bit is left.
Your skin and your bones now of flesh bereft.
Your last moments spent trying to cross a road,
Where an eighteen wheeler sped with a twenty ton load.
Headlights bearing down on you, oh so all alone,
Rubber tires hitting you harder than a stone.
Frozen in the light, you were terrified,
And in a split second becoming liquified.
A little bag of skin that suddenly got popped.
Like a water baloon after having been dropped.
Your guts and stuff splattered everywhere.
The only things left, skin, bones and some hair.
Buzzards and crows now begin to feed,
On a ****** gut shake, yum indeed.
Soon nothing of you will remain,
But a brownish, greyish sort of stain.
Poor little road **** didn't have a chance,
Guess you should have taken a second glance.
Before you crossed that road without a care,
You might not now resemble the stain in my underware.