This is a "Sixth Street Corporate War," "Sixth Street
Corporate War."
"Sixth Street Corporate War."
Not all rats live in sewers.
Some of them dwell in $100,000 rats' nests on the Alameda
and drive to work in a Mercedes, laboratory rat white.
You wouldn't even know they were rats.
On the mailbox it says Mr. Rodent.
As big as a coffee table book, the only book in the house,
he spends his time living in rat board and a rat house
with his cheesy rat kitchen or scamping on a rat sofa
on a bed of rats, or you might find him at the rat's Hilton,
wetting his rat whiskers on rat soup, my favorite drink.
Said the shareholder rat, there you go, bureaucratic rat
invested in rat and people like rats.
As years went by, he gained more status
until he became the esteemed Dr Ratus.
Crashed the Tomcat convention and demanded
to be put on the banquet.
Well, this even woke up Scrounger,
or Mr. All Claws, the toastmaster Tomcat,
kept napping on the dais after a night
of pre-convention howling.
What do you say, boys, said the thrice-decorated rat scrapper.
Rat cocktail, rat of the day, rat a la carte or rat mousse.
The other cats, being democrats, cast their votes
by secret ballot.
Goat.