Rat was born
And that was one.
Rat’s Brother, dying, mewed
And that was two.
Rat was wet,
Dreamed a tunnel of water, noise and smoke,
Rat, in the wheel, spoke
Rat’s need to be a declamatory being,
And Rat was three.
Rat wondered: Do I Love,
The wheel in the heart go round enough
To this or that applause ?
Whereupon, Rat was four,
The dark behind him out from which he crawled,
But eyelids closed, still the dark was Law.
Rat made school and so became a God.
‘I’ was the passport there, and ‘I’ the only word.
Rat learned the rhyme, Rat learned to stay alive,
Rat found the rhyme had rules, and knew that he was five.
The rest nix,
Winners get the glory,
Rat knew Rat was Rat, a winner’s kind of story.
His words made pools,
Ripples made from rhyming tools,
But the seventh ripples were a wave
That took back what the others gave.
Through eight he got small girls to dream,
Wrapped them in his rhyming schemes,
Rat left human far behind,
Made a Mother make a Brother, made nine.
Rat says of ten, often beaten.
Rat says of eleven, the beginning and the end.