You know, it’s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.
Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .
. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous example
