What do you think of this poem?

Sucks.

throws self off bridge

No mention of squirrels, therefore does not qualify as poetry.

I'm not native (English that is), but I'd say it looks neat with so few words. I like it.
And I'm surprised it was written over 80 years ago.

Fairly funny, but i learnt it at 13.

Try this:

God, A Poem

A nasty surprise in a sandwich,
A drawing-pin caught in your sock,
The limpest of shakes from a hand which
You'd thought would be firm as a rock,

A serious mistake in a nightie,
A grave disappointment all round
Is all that you'll get from th'Almighty,
Is all that you'll get underground.

Oh he said: 'If you lay off the crumpet
I'll see you alright in the end.
Just hang on until the last trumpet.
Have faith in me, chum-I'm your friend.'

But if you remind him, he'll tell you:
'I'm sorry, I must have been pissed-
Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You
Should have guessed that I do not exist.

'I didn't exist at Creation,
I didn't exist at the Flood,
And I won't be around for Salvation
To sort out the sheep from the cud-

'Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is
In soteriological terms
I'm a crude existential malpractice
And you are a diet of worms.

'You're a nasty surprise in a sandwich.
You're a drawing-pin caught in my sock.
You're the limpest of shakes from a hand which
I'd have thought would be firm as a rock,

'You're a serious mistake in a nightie,
You're a grave disappointment all round-
That's all you are, ' says th'Almighty,
'And that's all that you'll be underground.'

1983

James Fenton

I like it. I think it's quite deep.

I like Dorothy Parker too.
What about this, from WW2 veteran Vernon Scannel who died this week, published in September:

I heard the other day of soldiers back
from serving in the fighting in Iraq,
not wounded bodily but suffering from
‘post-traumatic stress disorder’ — ‘bomb-
happy’s’ what they called it in the war
on Hitler; ‘shell-shock’ in the one before.

And then I thought, Ah yes, I can recall
D-Day, June the sixth in forty-four,
wading through chest-high waves to reach the shore
(the stretch I later learned was called Sword Beach,
a place I didn’t really wish to reach).
What I that day with many others shared
was ‘pre-traumatic stress disorder’, or,
as specialists might say, we were ‘shit-scared’.

If that poem had been written by a poster here, most people would say it was shite. Having been written by Dorothy Parker, FAR more people are inclined to praise it.

I think it's witty and concise - that's praiseworthy no matter who wrote it.