The Mole
(Der Maulwurf)

Original German verses and artwork by Wilhelm Busch; English translation by Gabriele Kahn (all rights reserved); courtesy of Brian Thomas http://www.rivertext.com/stuff.html
Reproduced with permission

A gardener by the name of Knoll
Goes for a joyful garden stroll.

His joyfulness, however, sours:
A mole is digging up the flowers.

He hurries off to fetch the hoe.
That old black burrower must go!

Instead of hit-or-miss aggression,
This problem calls for sly discretion.

Ah! Something's stirring in the patch,
And Knoll stands ready for the catch.

Take that! - And Knoll has missed his goal.
The hoe's asunder, not the mole.

The tool is mended without fail
By firmly wedging in a nail.

Again he's lurking, grave and bent,
Ignoring his environment.

Klaboom! - Enough to lose one's head! -
The neighbour's shooting sparrows dead.

But, anyhow and all the same!
The shooting's over. Knoll takes aim.

The monster's burrowing once more.
This is what Knoll's been waiting for.

Quite hastily he swings the hoe -
The pear tree's there to catch the blow.

The hoe's no good in times of need;
His trusty spade will do the deed.

Old boy, be silent, not a breath!
Let stealth and cunning be his death.

Shnarrang! A din assaults his ear;
A band of street musicians 's here.

Music is always noise-related
And often not appreciated.

When all is quiet, as before,
The burrower appears once more.

Knoll thrusts his spade and, doing so,
Attacks the creature from below.

Hoorah! And in a graceful arc
The mole emerges from the dark.

Ow yow! The rake, a prickly thing,
When sat upon, is known to sting.

Knoll, in the face of perforation,
Withdraws in painful contemplation.

Meanwhile, the apprehensive mole
Makes haste to dig himself a hole.

But Knoll, arisen, fierce and brave,
Annihilates the digging knave.

Here lies the scoundrel, sleek and sable.
He'd rather dig, but he's unable.
It does not suit him in the least
To be so suddenly deceased.

~The End~