Going out to check the asphalt, where I’m searchin’
for a delicacy upon which to dine,
seekin’ delights done in late last night and flattened.
When critters troop on macadam. . .slammed supine.

Likely a final “goodnight” to find.

Generally I will avoid the nose and tail,
but I ain’t averse to splurgin’ on the heart.
Motorways they try to cross. . .an error—
they’re deer-eyed there, then they die there.
Big Macks kill, but I’m thrilled: it means a snack.
And so I’m happy critters gambol in the dark.

Need no gun with aim sharp. Tires slew my sup.

Vittles road-aged not quite as tasty as shot game,
but a moonshine marinade will make them tart.
Or throw ’em in a fire pit for smokin’
after nine hours, mighty tender!
I consume lots from my last-chance larder.
But when I pry ’em off, they appear as if starched.

Roasting aroma goes noseward, and I am parched—
a gulp o’ corn liquor goes down while my back’s arched.
I am ecstatic Macks go past fast and I score.
Full up they’re gassed and—happy me!—I’m gonna gorge.
Full up, I’m gassed on ’shine, not wine, set to explore
on Route 11, roadkill heaven. . .engines roar.
My gut’s distention awaits. . .a grate-fated boar!

It’s not sprightly Champagne but white lightning I'll pour.