The global rat,

He’s on the prowl;

He may be eating local fowl.

No time to talk,

No time to play,

Global rat is getting away.

 

He’ll never been caught, the global rat;

He’s fallen down hard and hit the ground,

Yet signs of his presence still abound.

The autumn leaves, the apple tree,

The family down at twenty-three,

Can testify he’s still around.

 

When I first encountered global rat,

He sagged with heaps of idle fat.

Now he’s lithe and his teeth are sharp;

His steps are as silent as a dying harp,

Refusing to ask or give any quarter,

Bestriding his kingdom like a cunning night porter.

 

He’s there in the dark, he’s there in the light.

In rural splendour or urban blight,

Or just on a lush suburban lawn,

He waits for his chance in the icy dawn;

For the careless or for the brave

Who have no more than themselves to save,

And like some smug, unwary cat,

They’ll meet their match in the global rat.