Raccoon Poem by Paul Cutting

He can't see that well, the masked fellows, as he climbs down from his perch, a fork in the tree, hand over hand, not sure if he can see, arch in his back low center of gravity, feeling his way across the grassy maze carefully, toward the cat food dish, Hello hello and move over my feline friends, let me get my noise in, as he touches his sustenance with soft caress excellence, dealing quite well with the backyard politics, trying to fit in with the at least 30 fury friends, to feed himself with meow mix deliciousness, using both hands, into the dish with a scoop and a flick of the wrist, crunchy hand fulls of wonderful munchyness,

He's a kind old Raccoon polite and so meek, when he done with his food he take a big drink and dip in an in ground hand made sink, and the cats look at him and say hey that's were we drink.

Its a beautiful place my Backyard full of love and old Cooney is now a welcome part of, then wattles a way with his wobbly walk, bids his good bye's in racoonish of course, clings to the trunk as he climbs back up the tree bark, must get to bed before it gets dark,