Giant killer bugs ain’t the first time we people been threatened by deadly pests in The Finger. This level of deprivation, we bound to see a nasty vermin or two. Sometimes seem the only defence we have is dozyhead Mustapha and a psycho-cat called His Majesty. Here be about the time the block got invaded by a low-down dirty rat, and how we each had our own ways of respondin’…

Rat Rap

You burglars, bailiffs, benefits inspectors,
conmen, crackheads, debt collectors –
watch out! Our block’s got top Security:
a 2-ton cat with total authority.
Name: His Majesty; hates uniformity –
flash an id you get a deformity.
A nasty slash off this scratchy cat
has you flat on your back on the welcome mat.
He’s a fiery furball, a furry fireball,
give the stink eye, hairy eyeball.
This hissin’, spittin’ feline fury
got more bite than a hot tandoori.
King of the Jungle in a High Rise flat.
Who gonna pat that cat?

Down the stairwell among the squalor,
bad-assed feral don’t wear no collar.
No man or animal dare be fightin’ him –
mice drop dead at the very sight of him.
Lickin’ his paws in superiority,
dodgin’ His Majesty’s top priority.
But on my honour, my bro Connor
fussed that puss, was not a goner.
Stroked his fur, throat started purrin’ –
that mad moggie was not stirrin’.
Top Cat’s got an Achilles weakness,
mollycoddled by Connor in total uniqueness,
ticklin’ his belly with a scrit and a scrat –
only Connor can pat that cat.

Besides that cat that we be swervin’,
there’s another beast we find unnervin’.
What always sets the youngers shriekin’,
freakin’ out, is an evil squeakin’.
Eek, a rat! Scrat scrat scratchin’ –
infectious terror that actually catchin’.
We learnin’ fearin’ from a determined
baby-plaguein’ rabid vermin.
The Finger is not worth infestin’,
but still this dirty rat is nestin’,
tail a twistin’, whiskers twitchin’,
in the bin within the kitchen,
by the sofa where you’re sat?
Who gonna bash that rat?

Though citizens hollered when the rat came scurryin’,
His Maj ain’t bothered, that cat ain’t hurryin’.
See His Majesty, he’s on holiday,
in Cat Nap City with no apology.
Though Big Auntie, Unofficial Warden,
set traps for the rodent he ignored ‘em,
and the local cop we call fat Compo
can’t catch the rat cos the rat’s so pronto.
Sis is equipped to evict this squatter,
she’s a dirty rotten vermin spotter;
clocks his peephole, blocks his exit,
locks him in a box – but he just wrecks it.
He won’t split – who’ll make him splat?
Who gonna bash that rat?

Who’ll blow his cover, get him cornered?
Not that cat – won’t do as he’s ordered.
I grab a hammer but it make Mum mad –
she say I’m a nutjob, same as Dad.
Rat make Sabretooth whimper and wail,
sinkin’ his fangs in the end of his tail.
He’s territorial, tough and tribal.
He chewed through Mr Bush’s Bible.
No respect for his betters and olders,
utter your prayers if he’s on your shoulders.
He loves takeaway, adores leftovers,
KFC’s his favourite odours,
chicken nuggets, fried in fat.
Who gonna bash that rat?

Not His Majesty, he too lazy,
don’t give a damn that it drive us crazy.
Mad Gaz dead drunk, slumped in his doorway,
won’t even wake for a road drill, no way.
Come the morn he’s a digit missin’ –
toe nibbled off by the rat we’re dissin’.
My mate Mustapha busily feedin’ him
fresh from the litterbin when he should be bleedin’ him.
Rentokill bait kills a kitten and a budgie.
(Sad Soft Stuart, try-anything junkie,
does not take to the crap he ate –
can’t get high on a plate of rat bait.)
Who got the swing, who got the bat?
Who gonna bash that rat?

Who’ll block his gnawin, blunt his clawin’?
Not that cat, he busy snorin’.
Don’t ever see no men from the council,
pencil-nibblin’, astoundin’ scoundrels.
Rat kill rate of the Pest Controllers:
zero percentage. Can’t console us,
can’t lift a finger, lift is broken,
fist is clenchin’, grief is spoken,
all the while that snout is pokin’,
no one sends the council bloke in.
Rat too speedy, who can stop him?
Read the message in his droppin’s:
schedule this, cutback that.
Who gonna bash that rat?

At last that rat make a terrible error,
cornerin’ Connor, bringin’ him terror,
snappin’ at his fingertips, nippin’ his bottom.
But Bro got protection, ain’t you forgotten?
Con-Con yellin’, “Call Security!
Rid The Finger of this impurity.
Defend the block with utmost severity.
Yo, Your Majesty, mark your territory.”
After all our hammerin’, all our poisonin’,
His Majesty finally sharpens his claws on him.
With no curiosity but feline ferocity,
His Majesty, moving with deadly velocity,
mashed that monstrosity. Squashed it flat.
His Majesty smashed that rat!



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s