A Biscuit for the Mighty Mole

A biscuit for the mighty mole,
A tissue for the dead.
I ran a little down the hill;
I ran into a wood,

A wood that would not show me shows
To rest my hungry eyes.
Its yeas too dark, too bright its nays
My sorrows to oppose.

As lonely as a crab I walked,
As backward as a pie.
Were but a raven to have pecked
My mangled pastry, Oy!

What solace lightning’s zig must be,
That zags from yonder zone,
Its arms so thin, its head so low,
Its shell of cloudy skin—

And everywhere it goes, I think:
“The wise have argued thus:
‘Authorities like Wesendonck
and Jasper would not miss:

" ' “If Pa and Ma were right,” ' they said,
‘Said Wesendonck and he,
“The thing to do, we are afraid,
Is what you plainly know.” ' "

I had forgot, you see, my friend,
What I had plainly known.
But when the zig-zag struck the ground
I’d laid myself upon,

My mind recalled old Wesendonck,
His maxims true and tried;
And like a shad I turned quite pink
From brooding in my blood.

My gums could bite no bullets, nor
Could Snickers they consume;
For in a fit I once did tear
My tusks out of their frame.

But like a worm and inch by inch,
Through oozing mud and slime,
Could I attain what on the bench
Is reckoned holy fame,

A chance to bunt, perhaps to slide,
To steal third base, and home;
For biscuits broken in the shade
Of dying trees and time.