The goal of a mole is a very big hole
From the very first day he’s born.
The goal of a mole is a very big hole in my lawn!
And if a mole can’t make a very big hole
Then a lot of little holes is fine.
I’ve got a lot of little holes
And a lot of little moles in mine.
Yes, a lot of little holes will do,
And a lot of little moles will do it
I’ve got a little lawn and it’s got a bit forlorn.
There’s a lot of little moles going through it!
Now, though I’m not a man who’s mean and vicious,
The sight of a mole makes me molicious,
And I don’t jest, I just molest that mole.
There is no place a mole can hide
When I am bent on molicide.
I take my little pole
And poke it down hits hole.
Nothing can mollify my hate.
With toxic pill and poison bait
I shall destroy, or immolate the mole.
So off I trundle on patrol with my mole hole pill and my mole hill pole
Saying: Poke him here and poke him there,
(A most molodious song, I fear!)
When suddenly, what’s this!? I gawp!
It is the giant Moldiwarp!
I don’t jest! I don’t molest THAT mole!
Ten feet tall, and black as coal,
Yet every molecule a mole
He came up from the ground,
Making a horrid sound.
He seized my nose. By terror jolted
All my hair fell out, or moulted!
Bald and none too bold I cried aloud.
If you’re mauled by a mole, or moled, I’m told
The mole never ever lets go his hold
Though he’s cajoled or scolded.
I’m quite surprised this mole did!
He looked at me, he seemed intent
On something quite molevolent.
He must have guessed that I’d molested moles.
There’s certain things that are not done
To moles. I reckon you’re the one
As done’em. Son, I’m warning you: Desist!
The mole with sticks stuck in his lugs
Or molesbane on his breakfast slugs
Has every right these actions to resist.
Take heed, or it’ll cost you! Mostly
I give warnings posthumously!
If Moloch’s words you fail to swallow
A Molocaust or worse will follow!
You are a mouldy molefactor!
Re-mould your mollusc mind and act a
Little better. Don’t be hard on
Those beneath you in the garden!
Thus, having mouthed this molediction,
Molto Vivace, he was fiction!
Melting, molten, went the mole
Down into his moley hole.
I stood in terror, my face green.
And since that day, green I have been!
And my green heart, by Moloch bested
Has never since a mole molested!
The son of an Irish father and a Welsh mother, the poet, painter and printmaker Mike Absalom was born in Devon in 1940. Educated in Quebec, Sweden, Iran and England, he majored in Oriental Studies (Arabic and Farsi) at Oxford and Gothenburg Universities before embarking on a career as a singer/songwriter during the 1960s and 70s. From 1980 to 2000 he lectured on satire, using his own verse as a template and worked as a harpist, fiddler, children’s entertainer and puppeteer across Canada and in the USA and South America. He returned to Ireland in 2002 to paint and write poetry. He has recently read and lectured on his own poetry at the English and also the Celtic Studies Department of AMU University, Poznan, Poland and in Kolkata, India. He lives and has his studio in Kilkelly, County Mayo. In September 2012 his “Even the Grass Has a Hangover” was shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award.