Chipmunks!

I used to like chipmunks. "Squirrels with racing stripes", they were cute, harmless little fellows. But now. Now, they have laid claim to my back yard, which I would not mind (less to mow!) except that the back yard is where the garden is! They have ruined several harvests over the past few years--popcorn a few years ago, bean seedlings last year, and every year, my strawberries. This year is the worst so far; I think Cuttlefamily has eaten less than a dozen strawberries, while the chipmunks have had hundreds.


While I’m weeding in my garden, as my calloused fingers harden
Every chipmunk in my yard enrages me with each tail-flip;
I had learned from cherished teachers, there were stripes upon these creatures,
Their identifying features, which I saw as they went zip—
Yes, the nimble little bastards did not run, so much as zip—
At a very speedy clip!

I’m no tree-or-rodent-hugger, and that cheeky little bugger,
With the holes that he has dug around my garden, makes me yip;
And I know it isn’t fairies that have heisted all my berries,
So I’m growing more than very certain, I must crack the whip!
If the bastards see me coming, they can all expect the whip—
With a shout of “chip, chip, chip!”

Every year, I’m more than willing to do seeding, weeding, tilling—
Must I now resort to killing pests that steal a little nip?
This is not some simple trifle—I don’t really think my wife’ll
Want me reaching for my rifle, much less shooting off a clip—
Though I must admit I’ve fantasized of firing off a clip,
Just to stop the “chip, chip, chip!”

Or a slug shot from my pistol, hitting medial or distal,
And a chipmunk-colored mist’ll stain my ivory-inlaid grip;
So the furry little beast would die, and I, I think, at least would
Look a little like Clint Eastwood, as I’m shooting from the hip—
I’d say “Punk, do you feel lucky?” as I’m shooting from my hip—
Just to stop the “chip, chip, chip!”

But of course, when I awaken from the daydream that I’ve taken
I will find that I’m mistaken, and he’s given me the slip!
Now he’s showing off and taunting, while his racing stripes he’s flaunting,
While my garden wall he’s haunting, from the bottom to the tip—
There are tunnels leading everywhere, from bottom to the tip
And that nasty “chip, chip, chip!”

And the chipmunk, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
Eating all my food, and shitting, with a smile upon his lip
For he knows he has me mastered, and the furry little bastard
Treats my feeble heart so dastardly, I know my pulse will skip
I can only hope it starts again, but surely it will skip
From that beastly “chip, chip, chip!”


So... I am asking my intelligent and helpful readers for one of two things: either tell me how to get rid of chipmunks, or tell me your traditional family chipmunk recipes.

I'm serious. It's time to turn the tables.