His type is a rat—a dirty rat.

He scurries along each day’s path,

Gnawing me, pawing me.

If he’d just let me be.


I allow him to antagonize,

But I turn from his tiny eyes.

Rarely seen without briefcase,

A phony smile, a mousy face.


Scratching his way to the top,

When the boss shouts, he hops.

He falls, then claws higher

Upon fellows’ backs—as a pyre.


I’d poison his kindred kind;

That’s what I’d do in my mind.

Does that make me bad

To think so unkindly of poor dad?


           by S.A. Bort / 2 October 2014

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