an investigation into the Secret lives of MOLES

“loves labour lost”
The wayward mole
A solitary soul
A subterranean warrior
Who really owns his role
A tunneller supremo
In the nether regions he
Its the sesamoid bone
That works his wrist
So very significantly

Assists his digging prowess
And helps him realise
That earthworms if they
Try to slither off
his tiny eyes
Are not His secret weapon
But it will paralyze with ease
And takes them to eternity
Guaranteed to please
Living nutrition ready
the masters table full
As fresh as fresh as ever
Thats got to be the pull

A french kiss from old moley
Thats about the size
If you happen to be an earthworm
it evidently flies
And does get worms frustrated
A living larder they
Can number some one thousand
Makes quite a nice dusplayg

Then he cleans the mud and dirt
squeezes it away.
before he sets to work
On chomping through the skin
That may
For him taste quite fermented
And easier to digest
Moles are macrobiotic
Really they invest

In a diet they were meant to eat
Yes ancestrally
Beneath the ancient circle
Where so many pagans be
Their rituals dredged from history
A neolithic gaze
As the labouring talpidae
Their fertile hills they raise

Butchering the grassy mounds
Havoc for each green
Causing quite some dangers
For anyone whose been
At rollrights on a winters night
Possibly at Yule
When the fire is burning in the grate
But the many hills can fool

The people leaving sometimes
Tripping as they go
These amazing creatures
All laughing down below
Tolerating the Co2
Better than we know
Apparently Achieving
the obvious and so

A few weeks after yule
The moles are on their way
To foreign parts
With beating hearts
Its females without delay
They use their high pitched voices
As An attractant so to say
Have their lovey dovey
And both go on their way

No such thing as long terms romance
Not with MR MOLE
He has a splendid fur coat
But still accepts the role
Of being wholly masculine
For a day or two
Otherwise a solitary
Doing what moles do


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