Buzzard's day

soars aloof from raptor culture.

Stink of death from any gulch or

dry ravine will lead to lunch.

Is that not a dying rabbit?

Interest piqued through force of habit,

But the vulture doesn't grab it,

keeps an eye out, has a hunch.

Ah, the bunny seems to stumble,

vulture tummy starts to rumble,

lagomorphic spirits crumble,

buzzard drools, now at the crunch.

Over lazy reptiles sunning

appetite and canine cunning,

grey coyote there is running,

on the shorter path to brunch.

Irked, the now-frustrated bustard

drops a load of putrid mustard,

spiteful streams of hairy custard.

"Try that on the flesh you munch!"

Doggy hunger isn't daunted

by the fecal rain just fonted.

Food, right now, is what is wanted.

Bunny bones make merry crunch.

Higher in the heated air

In orbit that amounts to prayer:

Does the Joking Maker care?

Where's His Line that holds The Punch?

Where pink winds red sands have carried,

among the dunes in order serried,

donkey carcass lies half-buried.

Vulture heart sings, "Thanks a bunch!"