More Rats

What Ho Proles!

I'm tired, miserable, not a little drunk, and I've had sonnets and rhymes up to my ears! So listen here when I say that we need to get one bally thing straight: this rat problem is not to be laughed off as one of my idle fancies! This is not a game. Nor is it trivial. We’re overrun by the beasts and some are as big as Irish wolfhounds. I know you scoff but we’ve had no milk today and I’m sure the two events are linked. The milkman’s cart was found at the gates at the foot of the drive and we followed large paw prints through the damp mud to a large hole in the ground. A smashed bottle of full cream was found by the opening and I now fear the worst for the poor chap.

This rat problem is beginning to seriously plague me, if you’ll excuse the deliberate pun. After the milkman’s disappearance, we had ourselves a little fun with some high explosives which My Man had managed to acquire via his contacts in the demolitions trade. It’s better not to ask too much. Our plan was to scare the little blighters from out of their dens and then blast them with the shotguns. I'd thought of setting the dogs on them and making a hunt out of the adventure but to be frank, I just wanted rid of the beasts.

It’s not much of a story to tell. Loud noises were made. Windows shattered. Foundations rocked. Not a sausage. Not a rat. Rodents A1. Shotguns unused. Seems the little tykes are immune to loud bangs. And that was the rather dull product of our day in the field. I'm planning a little thing with cheese tomorrow. We'll see if that works.

This evening, to calm my nerves, I set myself to trying to write another sonnet in the hope it would encourage My Man to come out of his sustained mood for having failed to figure in this here drama contest he’d hoped to win. I confess that I'm not finding these sonnet things easy to write and I refuse to be beaten by them. My only consolation is that My Man seems even less capable of mastering the form.

So, with apologies to both Momentary Academic and Eliza, below are our less than worthy attempts at sonneteering. I’m beginning to feel that rats provide less than the ideal subject for the metrical line.

The Hon. J. P. Murgatroid’s Sonnet for ElizaF
On Our Disagreement Over The Measurement of the Genus Rattus Norvegicus.

’Twas an inch she says, though a yard I meant
As the length of a single courtyard rat.
I know it’s true since it’s the measurement
Of the one we shot as it charged at the cat.
And how would you go and measure a rat?
I am so glad that you’ve finally asked!
Since from black tail to tip was a span that
Was the most repulsive job I’ve ever tasked.
But My Man’s really quite reliable
Though when it came to measuring the length
Of a tail that’s so ruddy pliable,
He failed to stretch it out with all his strength.
So an inch she meant, and a yard I say
And the truth is a thing for another day.


My Man’s Sonnet On Explosives

Kaboom! And two points on the Richter Scale
When wet earth trembled and the dry halls shook.
From My Master’s face, the colour did pale
And smoke cleared to the frightened scream of rooks.
Yet the giant rats had survived the blast:
Rodents immune to nitroglycerine,
Shotguns, poisons, and even hungry cats…
The toughest critters I have ever seen!
So now as we dwell on what has befell
All the instruments of Murgatroid might,
We gather together in living Hell
Preparing cheese to figure in the fight.
For though the rats do squeak their tiny cheer
Tomorrow’s the day cheddar goes nuclear!