I do not like the taste of rat.
I tried it once, but quickly spat
it out into the rubbish bin.
(a rank receptacle of tin
that sits outside the kitchen door
to keep the inside fresh and pure)

From there, the spat remains of rat
were later “rescued” by a cat,
a mangy puss, a shabby stray
who passed and sniffed my bin that day.

She took it to a quiet place
and carried out (with feline grace)
the grim dismemberment her kind
will practice on the things they find. 

The first bit isn’t true of course
-about tasting rat (though I’ve eaten horse)
I said the first line in reaction
to an Ikea toy’s insertion
in my mouth by a lively daughter.
The rest flowed out like murky water,
inspired by poems I have seen
by Roald Dahl on an iPad screen.