The least beast weasel grates on the nerves
Of stoats in coats,
When there are cluttering colanders
Boats edge moats,
The oily water laps
Taps turn and fill,
My head is like a sieve full of peas,
The least beast weasel greets the lost pea,
The one that got away.
They have not got much to say
To one another
For one is a weasel
And the other is pea.
The weasel considers and then delivers his verdict,
The pea deserves it. He’s heard it
But not absorbed it.
He’s glad, in a way, for freedom is kinda lonely,
Especially when you’re the only
Slow shrivelling death by drying.
Is the verdict.
The least beast weasel grates and greets,
And the pea is squashed beneath his pitter patter feet.