He killed one hundred and thirty-one squirrels
In a single season (a man of honor who wouldn’t lie,
Where one squirrel digit too many be false);
Shot one hundred and thirty-one squirrels
To see them plummet to a mounting tally;
One hundred and thirty-one flying tails,
Livers, lungs, spines, hearts penciled to a count,
Two hundred and sixty-two eyes fixed in numbered glaze;
And I said, “Pick your ears, listen! hark to me!
Should a single squirrel remain, the final one
In the forests of the world, would you gun for it,
Go for it plumb, scour universe if you could?”
And he said (spoke in honest frankness),
“I sure would.”