Rat Sonnet # 1
Each horror I escape is like my grave.
To a she rat as I, all is death.
The pressing sun by day makes me a slave.
But night is when I catch my squeaking breath.
The moon above shatters my vicious thoughts.
Rip out my pale bucktooth will and make time.
You are so slow, he rat. My patience rots.
Your twisted tail and patchy pelt match mine.
But by your waddling dawdling gait
A people kitchen is your frequent haunt.
I crave the city's wild streets when it's late
Where I feast like a plague, though I grow gaunt.
Still, I will wander under bone white moon.
While you sleep sugar fed in a snug room.
|A pet rat we once had.|
Now for a music video about the plague: