Gwendolyn Brooks - To A Winter Squirrel lyrics

That is the way God made you. And what is wrong with it? Why, nothing. Except that you are cold and cannot cook. Merdice can cook. Merdice of murdered heart and docked sarcastic soul, Merdice the bolted nomad, on a winter noon cooks guts;and sits in gas. (She has no shawl, her landlord has no coal.) You out beyond the shellac of her look and of her sill! she envies you your furry buffoonery that enfolds your silver sk**. She thinks you are a mountain and a star, unbaffleable; with sentient twitch and scurry.