When he takes drives down the road,
seeks meat deceased by wheels.
Eats what dies on the road…
makes a pleasing, fine meal.
Yeah, he’s goin’ for that road kill;
gonna have a real good dine.

Smell-nasty, rank, make-nose-ill—
it’s not for skunks he goes.
Swelled and fat is the road kill,
into the trunk it goes.
He might find a sheep felled;
if so, swell! Down he slows.

Then he’ll roast…gamey roast,
a game meal…tasty roast,
slain by wheels, made to roast…
on the road not too long.

Moose hit, Bobby, [au] jus it!

Along the road he rolls;
to glom road roast, his goal. Delight.

Rolls, road-roast troll;
thing drilled a hole,
moved past his otic gap, made snack o’
lotsa his gray matter—
breached organ…in tatters
as he became the chow,
so he ain’t right now.
Greedy, the worm
crawls, bites.

Actin’ crazy…
flattened-game treats.
Big sup, and now:
mixed up, and how!
Slain-chow winner;
brain-chow dinner.
Mind sound??!!

Well, folks woke in New York,
loped in the Park and scoped a bear.
Bear was road-croaked, a joke, folks head-stroked,
croaked: “It’s borne from where?”
A loony, that’s certain, placed it there.
Brain was worm fare.

Gets a whole wasted shoat,
nets a whole wasted goat.
Stretched for cold: bearskin coat.
Shredded throat grate-emotes.
Give him votes?!!

Guy’s all wrong.