The Destruction of the Voles

THe Librarian came down like a wolf on the fold,
His Bermudas were lime-green, his smile was half-gold
And he vowed that he'd see the whole acre de-Voled
Where the green grass grows softly, in cold Idaho.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
The voles with their tails up at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
The voles on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the voles, as he passed;
And the eyes of the critters grew deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the poisonous smoke bombs lay destruction all wide,
And the vole who inhaled it lost the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the First Vole, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the dirt on his nails:
And the burrows were silent, the kits left alone,
The nest cold and quiet, the warning unblown.
And the Owner turned back to the house, all alone
With his teeth of bright metal, and his heart of dull stone.

Gordon Flash Lighte, Lord Biro
Scribbles from the Far Burbs
Ball, Point and Penn, pubs.
Hartford, 1956