There's Mad Moles in my Garden,
They Party all night long,
Dancing with the wiggly worms,
They fill the night with song.
There's Mad Moles underneath the Turf,
They bump into the roots,
They dance the Samba with the ants,
And are never seen in suits.
Some of them can breakdance,
Or at least, it looks like that,
Some move like they have got the fits,
Or ants inside their pants.
They dig up lumps of soil and dirt,
Whilst jiving to the feeling,
Of Lionel Richie's old Cd's,
They're Dancing on the ceiling.
Their Ceiling is the green, green grass,
They lift it up in clumps,
They are welcome in the forests,
But not near cricket stumps.
There's Mad Moles in my Garden,
I really must evict them,
I'm sticking things into the lawn,
Just hoping to restrict them.
They haven't moved away just yet,
And burn the midnight oil,
I really can't put up with it,
They're messing up my soil.
There's Mad Moles in my garden,
It really is a sight,
Maybe I should just join in,
And party there tonight? ....
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I would like to translate this poem