The Ballade of the Petit Rats

The Ballade of the Petit Rats

By Abby Thatcher

The little rats hate to dance.

Always having to keep in time,

and hold their faces with elegance.

Their existence began as a crime,

but now they are paid for balance

as they endlessly work until dawn.

No one cares for their other talents,

and yet the petit rats dance on. 

A shame that their families disappeared,

But thankfully the opera was near.

They never worried if it was engineered,

they were safe now and in the clear.

Passersby would often sneer,

and say their dancing “was a yawn.”

They had heard every passing jeer,

and yet the petit rats danced on. 

The nights would become an ugly blur

watching one another grow cold

unable to blink or even to stir. 

Not many of them grow to be old,

they had higher chances of being sold. 

No sense in hope before you're gone,

knowing your story will not be told.

And yet the petit rats dance on. 

Kidnapped and broken,

they will dance on.

Lost and forgotten,

they dance on.