The starlit sky is dark with hungry hordes,
gliding as silent as the looming clouds.
How well you see the midnight gold gleaming
on my tree, a feast for furry bellies,
drooping clusters of fine orange berries.
How many crops have you destroyed tonight?
Peaches, bananas, figs and soft mangoes,
torn and shredded beneath the gibbous moon,
soon to be abandoned for some new food
or fancy of your predatory brood.
By day you hang out in chattering hordes,
inverted, viewing the world upside down,
or sleeping after fertilising trees
or sowing swathes of half digested seeds
regardless of whether they're crops or weeds.
Naturally, you've acquired a bad name,
accidentally scratching some poor humans,
infecting them with Lyssavirus or
a horse with the deadly Hendra strain or
worse, killing a vet after months of pain.
Despite these faults you are charming creatures,
perhaps even distant cousins of ours,
living a life of freedom and plenty,
we should not begrudge payment for your toil
by sharing a few products of our soil.
You're welcome to berries from my branches,
but please don't touch my Paw-Paws when they're ripe.
Meanwhile I must clean the driveway again,
and cut down all the berries from the tree,
since my drive has become your lavatory.