by Edith King
THE burrowing mole lives under the ground
Day in and day out, all the changing year round;
Like a train in a tunnel, in darkness he goes.
And makes his own track with his feet and his nose.
He lives upon worms as content as can be
For breakfast and supper, for dinner and tea.
Yes, just as they are, as a matter of course.
He gobbles them up, without cooking or sauce.
If you lived where he does, in a very short time
I fear you'd be covered completely with grime ;
But though he works hard all day long for his meat
And has but one coat, he is perfectly neat.
It's not very often he visits the light.
Except when he's angry and anxious to fight;
Then he and his enemy leave their dark holes.
And in warfare there's nothing more savage than moles.
Their virtues are great, but their tempers are bad,
Biting and scratching, they scuffle like mad.
And over and over they roll in the ditch,
Until it's a puzzle to see which is which.
But if they discover you watching the fray,
They leave off at once to get out of the way,
And burrow so quickly, scarce making a sound,
That before you count ten they're gone into the ground.