Water vole, if you don't mind,
although rats scull strongly.
Everything was ship-shape then,
boating with a book
and a hamper, and company.
But these days I'm boarded up.
Stoats are bad enough,
but their transatlantic cousins
think I'm a Big Mac on legs.
In this neck of the woods, it's getting rough.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem