There’s a Sweazle in my garden

There’s a Sweazle in my garden, he’s wanted by conservation law, It’s time to take a chainsaw to his door, remove his claw like hold.

I’m told he’s not causing any trouble, lodged in my Phoenix Palm, as neighbours go, he’s laid back, pretty calm.

He’s grey and sleek, with bushy tail, glides across the fence and rails. I‘ve tried to message him, but he don’t do e-mail. He’s persona non gratis In and out the lattice; his personal gym apparatus, establishing his status.

As a permanent resident, he’ll not be content, until he’s president. This little brat, just what you at? Sparing with the cat - how dare you do that. You’re asking for a bat across the chops, the conservation cops are now on the case to determine your race, and place. Where you misplaced?

Half weasel – half stoat, I’ll squeeze your throat and gloat, when you’re caught with a box all baited; patiently waited, we’ll be elated, that you are fated to be belated... Mate.

Where are you from and where have you been? Like some agricultural dream. Appearing by choice, apparently no voice – as yet, someone’s pet? This little grey corvette doing doughnuts on my lawn from dusk till dawn; no picture taken although the camera’s been shaken - the sensor awakens, but identity mistaken, just a rat, fancy that.

So the Sweazle is still there, in his cosy little lair. Amongst the pine and fir, protected by the palm; the spikes alarm - like some umbrella bomb, vegetable protection in every direction, for this little infection, this blight of small height, ever catching my sight.

As I gaze out my window and into the shadow, where’d it go, little weirdo. I discovered by chance that the little bugger will dance, given half a chance - when caught in the mist of a garden hose hiss. Well aimed, down it rained and up he shot, his camouflage forgot, just a fading dot among the nuts. He’s up there now resting on a bough , unseen in amongst the green all sleek and clean, watching as I try to catch this little guy.