Mr Jones and Blue, the bright-red rat.
A short fat man with a pudgy face was chasing Mr Jones
And shouting something frightening involving broken bones.
Beside said Jones ran faithful Blue, a self-willed racing rat
Who’s rather scrawny bright-red fur weren’t much for looking at.
Jones’s left hand held a gun, but had it by the barrel
Which seemed him strange, but not as strange as Blue’s blue silk apparel.
For Blue, (a rat, it bears repeating) wore a blue silk suit
Complete with waist-coat, but no tie and only one black boot.
The short fat man with pudgy face was puffing ever closer
And also yelling nasty things which steadily grew grosser.
“I’ll hit your face with week-old fish!” he cried in crimson rage.
“I’ll leave you dirty limericks in Sunday’s funnies page!”
Now, Jones turned round at this last jibe; it cut him to the quick;
They very thought of it, I fear, had made him rather sick;
He doubled up and gagged a bit as Blue ran interception.
The way Blue did it was like this: he made a nice deception
By looking up at Jones and saying “You’re not Jones at all!”
The pudgy one must have been daft, for for this he did fall.
“If that’s not Jones, where did he go?” he cried out. “This is dire!
If I can’t find him, how can I with his shoes start a fire?”
“I think he went this way,” said Blue, and darted off the path
Leading off the short fat man, still bellowing in wrath.
At last the sounds died down, and Jones was left alone to think
“I think I might have left the spigot running in my sink.”