The possum is a surly beast
and not a thing of beauty.
Somehow it’s numbers have increased,
though Nature made it moody.
This animal is hard to love,
even by those of it’s kind.
When I spy one in my yard,
it brings a rat to mind.
Distant cousin of the kangaroo,
it also has a pouch.
It clings to oak limb overhead,
and hisses, the old grouch!
A scruffy gray with wiry coat,
long tail a naked pink.
If survival needed personality
the beast would go extinct.
It dines on bugs and other grub
a gourmand would deplore.
When Nature bestowed intellect,
poor possum she ignored.
When it’s harassed by dog or cat,
our hero plays quite dead.
It hopes to fool it’s enemies.
That’s all that’s in it’s head.
Yet often it does seem to work,
this not so clever plan.
For predators lose interest
and possum comes to life again!
If you see a skunk, please run away,
‘cause if you pause, he might just spray.
Then, my dear, you’ll hold your nose,
with skunky stink all over clothes!
No one will like you very well.
Your skin will have an awful smell.
You’ll have to burn each thing you wore
and scrub yourself until you’re sore.
Though skunks look cute in stripy fur,
you cannot play with him or her.
It’s fact indeed; it’s not a rumor
that skunks don’t have a sense of humor.
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