Note: The following poem was occasioned by the Trib Sunday Magazine's article "Caped Crusaders".
I'm liberal and democrat.
That's why I understand the bat.
A creature whom most do impugn
For flying nights under the moon.
Forget those yarns around the campfires
Alleging bats morph into vampires.
They don't have blood banks in their caves
Or flit near Transylvanian graves.
They're beneficial aviators,
And may I add, cum salis grano,
They feed the soil with poop, called guano.
Don't blame the bat for dereliction.
Its ill-repute is dreadful fiction.