I am not proud of spending time
In Rodent Station Number 9.
I’ll own regrets, and these are mine:
I did ignore each posted sign.
There’s four below and eight above,
And none of them was made with love,
But all the rodents push and shove
(And do not wear their boxing gloves)
To be admitted to the station,
There allotted rodent rations,
And allowed a brief inflation
With a broth of dissipation.
As far above as I could see
Was Rodent Station Number 3,
Where fatter rats looked down at me
And ate their brie and poisoned tea.
There’s lotteries for Station 1,
A fabled hall of feasts and fun
And Champagne fountains in the sun:
It’s guarded by a thousand guns.
At Station 9 the rodents preen
Themselves above Station 13
Where starving rats will shave one bean,
Kept desperate and never clean,
And so I knew it could be worse,
But Station 9 felt like a curs-
Ed place to wait upon my hearse
And watch my spirit just disperse.
So I escaped, I ran away-
The path was dangerous and grey:
I almost died nine times that day,
But ah, the place I’ve come to stay!
For once I fought and did not yield,
And came into this sunlit field,
I leaped for joy and danced and squealed
With happiness at truth revealed!
There’s nuts and berries, fat and fine,
There’s lovely friends, they’re truly mine,
The sun above! (It never shined
On Rodent Station Number 9).
My plea: Come see: you rats are blind!
Leave Rodent Station Number 9!