The old rat had lived well

Avoiding traps and the poisoned rice

Eating human foods and drinking from their filtered well

But now he was arthritic from over-indulgence 

Of patés, brioches and victuailles imported from La France

About to die, unable to climb to the attic twice, not even once

I better commit suicide and eat those blue wheat pellets

I remember my days with the young female ratlettes

Thin and debonaire

I were suave, full of rat-pong and expertise in my lair

I am becoming blind as well, my beautiful black eyes becoming foggy

This is the price of eating too well, the refined crap from them bourgeois bins

Full of preservatives and nasty chemicals without names

But tasty nonetheless for the really refined palate of Sir James

Obese like the cat next door with whom I shared a plate on Frid’y

Often. The old cat is dead, crossing the road too slowly

His feline gait like a has-been on steroids imitating a queer Ben Hur

Riddled with cancer over his fat body, loosing his tiger fauvish fur.

So what else is there to do?

Yoo-hoo yoo-hoo….

Can you see me, here, still eating in the recycling bin?

And do I complain where this Sydney weather has been?

Not a dry speck of haven even under the leaking roof

All the wet newspapers of my nest being the proof

Rain, rain and more rain and I got isolated

For covid nineteen

Was like a plague grandpa used to spread

But this was in nineteen seventeen

Sharing a rathole with soldiers about to die for god’s prelates

I better commit suicide and eat those blue wheat pellets

Before I suffer the nastiness of a too long decadent effect 

It’s too dark to see which colour is tainted with rat bait

The end.

It still rains.

ROBERT URBANOSKI

26 February 2023

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