There once was a rat nesting in a cellar,
Who lived only on lard and butter,
Who had a paunch on it,
As fat as Doctor Luther.
The cook laid out poison for it;
It seemed as though, in all the world,
As if love had consumed its body.

It ran hither, it ran thither,
And lapped at all the puddles,
Gnawed, scratched around the whole house,
But there was no use for its madness;
It leapt all over in pain,
Soon the poor creature had ached
As if love had consumed its body.

It made it in spite of pain until the break of day
Running into the kitchen,
Fell on the hearth and twitched and lay prone,
And wheezed pitifully.
Then she laughed, the poisoner:
"Ha! it is on his last legs,
As if love had consumed its body."