THE RATS.

When I'm sitting
At my knitting
After tea—
Deary me!
Such commotion,
Land o' Goshen!
And it's all
In the wall.
Rumble, tumble,
Flurry, scurry.
Now a rushing,
And a crushing;
Now a rattle,
And a battle;
Now a squeak
And a fall

So I sit
And I knit;
And I ponder
And wonder,
And scarcely know how,
In the racket and row,
My wits to recall.
But the clatter,
For that matter,
And the rumble
And tumble
And scratching
And catching
Keep on
Through it all.
Rats in dozens,
With their cousins,
Or in droves,
With their loves:
Now it's raps,
Now it's taps,
Or it's crunching,
Or munching;
Or a creak,
Or a shriek;
If I knew
What to do,
Or you'd show
Where to go,
I'd be off
Like a streak.

But no, I must stay
While they clamor away.
Traps, cats,
Sticks or rats—
Bane or gun,
It's all one.
No, it's fudge,
They won't budge!

Rat are rats,
Spite of cats
And the rest.
But—my star!—
Beginning or end
Or middle, depend
The things are a pest;
And they're all
In the wall,
So they are!

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