Willy, the Rat Terrier
Willy, the Rat Terrier
He nibbles on my nose.
Why? Heaven only knows!
Each tooth feels like a pin.
I need much thicker skin!
Yet Willy, the rat terrier,
could not be any merrier.
After a bath or stroll
he sprints around the whole
apartment like a race
car driven by an ace
who’d swallowed too much speed.
(Perhaps it’s just his breed
that is to blame for that.)
He’s like a mad preschooler
who drank from the wine cooler
and got so hugely gassed,
runs so awful fast,
is such an acrobat,
a poor rat would have no shot
at evading such a tot.
I wouldn’t like to be
that rat, believe you me!
He’d shake it side to side
until the critter died,
which would be just as quick
as death by a dropped brick.
Even a swift hare
wouldn’t have a prayer!
Yet the only life this brat
has so far ever seized
was neither hare nor rat,
but the schnoz from which I’ve sneezed.
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