My dad built a little motor:
Hand-crank, wires, little rotor.
He would wait for squirrels to climb
Up his feeders. Every time
One got there and started feeding,
Eating what birds should be eating,
Dad would turn that crank and then
Squirrel, shocked, ran away again.
Dad died early- forty-nine!-
Way before his proper time.
So now I sit here in the sun
Doing what he would have done
When I see the birds can’t eat
So I must the squirrels defeat;
I hit them with jets of water,
Serve his memory as his daughter.