a poem about depressive animals

A little bird told me
He thinks his brain is broken ?'cause he
Can't for the life of him decide where to fly.
So he laid a pair of dice to make all his decisions,
But for every number
From 2 to 12
He puts, "roll again."

He's like this red squirrel,
Who won't eat nuts because he says that
They make him feel much sicker than usual.
So he climbs crates instead of trees, and hoards empty bottles,
But the glass hurts his mouth
And breaks his teeth
When he tries to eat.

Like the maggot I met
That grew into a big fly and flew
Straight into a spider web, but fell right out.
So now he only lands on happy smelling, dry cow turds,
But it doesn't stop him
Wanting to be
Squished by a horse-hoof.