|More featured books »
There it goes again. The vole-men are burrowing. I can hear their tiny hands, I can hear the soft scratching of hundreds of tiny feet scuttling in their tunnels. I have caught a few. Once defurred they can be roasted like chicken, braised in their own juices, simmering in lemon and thyme. But there are too many of them to eat. They repopulate. They grow to the size of a small child, and they are faster than roaches. Once while I was asleep, they burrowed into the air hole of my bunker, and I had to dispatch six of them at once. I couldn't eat them all. I trekked for miles in the dark, dragging three dead vole-men along. I threw them into a pit, where they would be eaten by greater monsters.
|More featured poems »
Shall I compare thee to a Winter's day?
Thou art more unpleasant and more frigid:
Rough skin doth shape thy sagging breasts of grey,
And Winter's touch doth not leave me rigid:
Sometimes the bright glare of hot flashes shine,
And often am I burned within thy midst;
The seasons they change as thy looks decline....
Uncyclopedia is hosted by the Uncyclomedia Foundation, a non-profitable organization that also hosts a range of other projects as well as some foreign language Uncyclopedias and Illogicopedia.