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by Elizabeth Hurst
They stained their pink and busy hands
Conquering all earth's peopled lands.
Little dream beasties, Freudian turds,
Collapsible bones, darkly immured
With strong clawed feet and wormy tails
Tracking their piss in eloquent trails,
Revolting, disgusting as can be. Yet
They love us, enchant us—sinister pet,
A scurrying kingdom, thick underneath
Gray city streets, in the sewers of Lethe,
Below our floors, within our walls
Footholds of empire, vast rodent halls.
They swim open sea, they sleep in ice
And pollute starved peoples' stores of rice.
Prudent, oh yes, but free of fear
They followed us, and they'll be here
When radiation burns up the soil
And glows in their genetic coil.
Tough little bastards, filthy elves,
Loving families, altruistic selves;
They married us, for mostly ill.
We poison them, they're with us still.
They haunt our houses, own our dumps,
Slide up pipes to nip our rumps.
They've gnawed their way into our core
By making love instead of war.