The squirrels in my yard are conspiring against me.
I know that they're watching me walk.
I go to the mailbox to get today's paper,
While they all talk their chattery talk.
Beady eyes flicker as I step through the leaves,
Their minds gauge and ponder my gait.
"Will he go left today? Go right? Try to sprint?"
The little fiends wonder with hate.
Up in the treetops, tiny pencils are drawing,
Charts of my daily routines.
I don't know this for certain, though I'm sure what I feel,
It's the reason I'm weak in the knees.
I find the newspaper, little protection that it is,
And make plans to return to my home.
Their plans, however, are much bigger and bolder
And require things like plastine and chrome.
But for now things are quiet, they nibble and pause,
Storing up knives and meat cleavers.
But for all their malevolance, still I must say,
Thank God they're just squirrels and not beavers.