Wednesday, January 2, 2008

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats. Browning would have it. Okay, mice, but it's an infestation, for sure. They seem to be positively gorging themselves on that green poison that looks like it's mixed with bird seed, but it doesn't seem to have curtailed their activities ('droppings'-wise) one iota, and they don't seem to have any difficulty skirting the glue traps I position so strategically. Obviously the kitchen looks as sterile as...well, something clean -- but I still need to disinfect thoroughly every day. And this from a confirmed slattern!

Not particularly eager to die of Bubonic Plague. Might make large bonfire around building, Pope-style, and sit on throne in center.

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