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 Pyrrhic revenge

They’d eaten his books, his clothes and lean paper money,
Whetted their teeth against his coins and an old jar of honey.
They’d blown cold air nightly, as they gnawed whilst he slept,
Eating bits of his extremities that lay in the path they crept.

No out-of-bounds, for every nook they could roam,
In his one room shack - the pigsty he called home,
Pooing on his bed and table; sometimes,  boldly in his stare,
And, not inside his drawers, pots and pockets, did they spare.

By heavens, for such a man in his youthful prime,
There was none dirtier; whose home had more grime,
The constant reek of gunge - what better invitation,
To every pest; flying or crawling, for cohabitation?

He’d hoped to kill the poverty that to him, had seemed to glue
With the job for which he’d been invited for an interview,
Alas! His file jacket was barely held by its leather threads,
And his results and certificates; partly eaten, were in shreds.

Enough! he’d thought, and bought a mousetrap,
With smoked fish bait, he’d soon heard the trap’s first clap,
Of the fathers, mothers and offsprings, he’d caught one,
With this and others after, he’d planned his vengeful fun.

With glee, to the street he’d stepped with the vermin,
The fate of which, only he could now determine,
He’d doused it with petrol, amidst street kids  cheers,
But oblivious of his folly, and fate’s inaudible jeers.

With a single match strike, it was engulfed in flames,
And what happened next, he had none to apportion blames,
For, in blind anguish, the rat had dashed back into his room;
The house had charred, smoking with a mile high plume!

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