I saw a dead squirrel on the side of the road
On a hot day in posh Regents Park.
A fat man with sunglasses ignored it.
No one called the coroner.
The local dogs had palates too refined
For sun-braised road-kill.
Poor nut-obsessed chap.
As yet unpecked.
Born into the wrong species.
His death of supreme indifference.
Simply a victim of progress.
Like The Luddites.
Or vapourised Palestinian children.