Over the past few months I've been writing a book of children's stories aimed at a more adult audience
and have been wondering about the best way to gauge reaction to them. This seems like a good opportunity since I have written a story that seems to fit. I'll apologise for length in advance and leave this here:

Once upon an old oak tree, in the centre of the wood,
A small red squirrel collected food as quickly as he could,
Running through the undergrowth, amid the woodland floor,
The squirrel worked for hours a day to build his winter store.

Every morning he would wake to the chorus of the dawn,
Sit up in his squirrel bed, and give a squirrel yawn,
He’d spend all day collecting acorns fallen through the night,
And store them in his squirrel pantry safely out of sight.

All through the autumn months the industrious squirrel worked,
Whilst in the upper branches, five grey squirrels smirked,
And while he toiled collecting food, they kept him in their vision,
Shouting insults from the tree in torment and derision.

“Hey Duracell!” they cried “You stupid ginger twat,
There’s plenty of food everywhere, why are you doing that?”
“Hey Coppertop” they heckled “The wood is our canteen”
But the squirrel just ignored them, and carried out the same routine.

Perturbed, but not put off by this, the gang’s hatred they conveyed,
“What’s the difference between a brick and a ginger?...The ginger can’t get laid”
The jokes were never ending, a torrent of abuse,
But still he just ignored them, their gags were of no use.

Annoyed at getting no reaction from their witty parlance,
They started aiming nuts at him, resorting now to violence,
They’d throw them at him viciously then run and get some more,
But the squirrel would just thank them, and take the nuts to store.

Preparation, he thought was key to prove his worldly worth,
So every year when leaves would brown and wither to the earth,
He sensed that snow was on its way, that winter would roll round,
That’s why he stored and hid away his food deep underground.

He knew the trees although now ripe would soon be stripped lain bare,
That the canopy of leaves; his shelter, soon would not be there,
And when the cold hard frosted ground, the woodland stark and bleak
Then they’d know why he had worked, so hard for week on week,

The gang were getting sick and tired of his chirpy way,
They put on hood disguises, a sort of squirrel KKK,
They couldn’t stand our red head friend; they launched a hate campaign,
By pissing on him from a tree; unleashing yellow rain.

They set fire to leaves beneath his tree, wrote insults on his door with shite
Pressed his bell and ran away, rung him at all times of night,
They played loud music near his home to keep him wide awake,
They harassed him every hour of day, just hoping that he’d break.


With their minds set on such hatred, and a chip lodged on their shoulder,
It took quite a while to realise that the wood had got much colder,
The cornucopia that once had been, to seasons had been lost,
And fallen leaves and woodland fruits had withered in the frost.

The gang took off their hoods and looked about the scene,
The ground was now as hard as ice, the tree’s had been stripped clean,
They realised the red squirrel had been right, their view was now imbued,
Not through some moral enlightenment but a lack of sleep and food.

For days the squirrels foraged throughout the woodland floor,
Wishing they’d planned for winter and made their own nut store,
And all the while the small red squirrel sat by his twiggy fire,
With more food than he’d ever need in his whole life entire.

While he slept warmly in his home the gang did all it could,
Just to try and stay alive in a now harsh winter wood,
At night they’d huddle all together to try and stave of cold,
And wished they’d listened more to what red squirrel had foretold.

One day as snow began to fall and one of their party died,
They realised that they needed help; they each swallowed their pride,
The red squirrel was now their only hope, he’d help them, they were sure,
And so heads bowed, and cap in hand they turned up at his door.

With gown and pipe the squirrel stood tall in his door frame,
A picture of preparedness, but of sheer and cold distain,
He looked at the gang now pathetic but still a prejudice disgrace,
And so he smirked at their suffering, and slammed the door right in their face.

Like an impotent mallard he couldn’t have given a flying fuck,
He laughed and watched them struggle as they shivered and they shook,
And as they each one died he chuckled, his heart as black as coal,
The lesson here’s a simple one…that gingers have no soul.
( Furness, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 13:33, 2 replies)

I like it but...
paragraph 8 "tree's" doesn't need an apostrophe.
( Mockingbird Practitioner of SCIENCE, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 14:07, closed)

Truly Epic
Not sure the impotent mallard really scans, but a fine piece of work there.

Clicked.
( Ugi , it's a game of give and cake, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 17:17, closed)