The Posh Rat
In London, once, there may have been,
The poshest rat you've ever seen.
I'm told that he would often go,
To buy his suits from Saville Row.
He was immaculately dressed,
His trousers always neatly pressed.
A crisp white shirt, a pink bow tie,
A monocle in his left eye,
And, tailored (with their own motif),
His stripy pants and handkerchief.
He'd wax his tail and comb his hair,
Then step into a brand new pair,
Of gleaming handmade leather boots,
(The perfect match for his posh suits).
He'd don his black top hat and cane,
Then briskly stroll to catch his train.
He'd take the Piccadilly line,
To Knightsbridge station where he’d dine,
At Harrods restaurant for lunch,
And every single day he’d munch,
A medley of the finest food,
Of which, I’m told, it may include;
Truffles, oysters, dry-cured ham,
Moose cheese, wagu beef and yam.
The types of things that you and me,
May (in our lifetime) never see,
But he, remember, was the rat,
So posh he wore a black top hat.
To look at him you'd think that he,
Was from some kind of royalty,
But this was really not the case,
His bloodline lacked a single trace,
Of Noblemen or Queenly reins,
That ran through his ancestors veins.
It was, in truth, a dreadful act,
To cover up the real fact,
That Ratty always talked and sang,
In London cockney rhyming slang.
(A very funny sounding thing,
That would not do for any King),
Rat wasn't rich, he wasn't posh,
He didn't even like to wash.
He just liked people thinking he,
Was from the aristocracy.
The End
