Der were ratz in the suflé again.
My moder gave me ratz to eet.
Cellar ratz, in the suflé, again.
Has my moder ever eeten ratz?
I bet not.
I bet ratz never eight my moder.
If ratz could think,
they would cook and eet my moder.
I am a rat. I think
I'll feed my moder to the ratz, my broders.
Piece by piece. I laf. I think.
Ratz in the suflé, again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
so much love in the world that eventually everything erupts in laughter the memory so sweet a fine poem (please pardon: good enough to eat)