That bloody Mayor, he promised me
three bags of silver, newly minted,
and maybe willing girls, he hinted,
if I would only guarantee
to rid the Town of rats, posthaste.
He said the word “Rats” with distaste.
I played my pipe: a tempting tune
of sharpish sharps and flattish flats
that has a certain way with rats.
Hypnotic notes: no rat’s immune,
those furry critters bobbed and swayed
and when I played they all obeyed
and followed me along the bank
into the water, flowing fast.
I drowned them all down to the last
and waited till each damn rat sank
then went right back to see the Mayor.
The wretched rascal wasn’t there.
He’d fled and taken all the cash.
The Council said, Can’t help ya, bud.
I swore I’d pay them back in blood.
They threatened me with fists and lash
so I pulled out my pipe again
and played a new tune tinged with pain.
This time it was the kids, not rats,
that followed to my piping notes:
wild laughter sprang from childish throats.
I stole them all, those little brats.
I led them off. Hid them away.
You hire the Piper, best to pay.
Oscar Milde
