Atop rot sits our King of Filth,
Our grimy King of waste and stolen wealth.
A low-down rat through and through
From his curlicue whiskers to his naked, snaking tail.

The grimy crown poised upon his brow,
Perhaps three grams of gold in all
With a weight tenfold that of a good rat’s soul,
Pulls his snout up high, over which he leers at us.

He bathes in the finest muck and slurps up luxury swill
And beckons us lowly rats to dab his royal skull.
One day was different, however,
And his bath was cut quite short.

The gutter was nice and fetid,
Foul and stinking and perfectly tepid.
Feet in the street churned the grime quite pleasantly
Until one gleaming, polished pair paused momentarily.

Our King disappeared beneath a boot just as its human spat,
Contemptuously, face contorted in disgust, “Filthy rat.”
And that was the
end
of
that.