The splattered skunk lies
spread eagled on the road,
creating a new white line,
where none existed before;
I fly on by at seventy-five
wrapped in  my race car mode,
the skunk is mangled badly,
his inner being has no core.

Huge black ravens hippity-hop,
as I close the gap between us,
nonchalantly, as if to say,
hey- I was here before you;
I watch them dodge me and
I mutter out a silent cuss,
the mess is hardly recognizable,
a mass of protoplasm I call goo.

The stench of dying musk prevails,
gets you coming and gets you going,
I breathe though my mouth,
but the odor still is prevalent;
there are dead animals on the street,
dried blood not longer flowing,
bigger ones can wreck your auto
or leave one hellacious dent.

We **** them this way or another,
with guns and our pollution,
some that were, are now no more
extinct, or **** close to it;
I wish we could pass a law
or come up with a resolution,
that saves all creatures from our wrath,
before the day we rue it.