When through the open window evening breeze
Delivers a distinctive sort of funk,
I know that for some time I’ll take my ease
Surrounded by the stink of eau de skunk.

Inhaling that distinctive sulfurous scent,
Reminds me of my childhood when a whiff
Of woodland musk inevitably meant
That with a skunk our dog had had a tiff.

I’m now convinced that each skunk adolescent
Selected my street for initiation
To cross the lanes when traffic is incessant
Which all too often leads to ruination.

Their fates were written by the moving finger,
But, thanks to their biology, shall linger.