O damn you! For you sap my mirth,
Digging, clawing, under earth,
Your days will soon be done,
Inch by inch, your endless toil
To mountain slag, on lawn you spoil!
O run you rodent, run;
Your blindness does not sap your wit,
For tasty poisons, do not sit
Upon your furry tongue;
And wary you of snare or trap
Ere baited, triggered, but no snap!
O run you rodent run;
But you no more will blight my day,
The game is run, I’ve moved away!
john thomas
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-mole-series-part-1-the-mole/
