The Last Stop

Flattened fur and bunny ear,
A weary grin now here appears,
Crushed little bones where tyres tread,
I guess it’s Bugs—yes, Bunny’s dead.

A brutal scene laced across its face,
Left for crows’ pickings, no shame, no grace,
Eyes peeled wide, a little like balloons,
A sudden death with instant doom.

A hooter honks to warn the hare,
Still he crossed; he seemed to dare,
We hope his end was quick and swift,
Paws skyward, soul adrift.
He met the tyre, body split in two—
What’s a driver meant to do?

Now fur and whiskers grace the road,
A life’s small spark in flattened mode,
A cartoon ending, some might jest,
But even the wild needs time to rest.

So here he lies, our Bugs laid flat,
A grim reminder, the bunny splat.
I guess that's just the end of that ....