Nocturne for the Trashcan Tyrants

Beneath the moon’s pale, argent glow,
Where cobbled streets and brownstones grow,
A colony thrives in shadows deep—
While Brooklyn's mortals dream in sleep.

In my aluminum trashcan's hold,
A tale of life, both raw and bold,
The rats convene, a furtive clan,
Their kingdom forged by human hand.

Oh cunning beasts, with eyes that gleam,
Of filth and scraps, you build your dream.
What treasures gleaned from night’s disguise,
What morsels plucked, what glories rise!

Each dented lid, your concert hall,
Each rotting rind, your banquet call.
A feast you craft from cast-off waste,
Your hunger drives, your wits make haste.

Yet as I watch your nightly spree,
A strange respect takes hold of me.
Survivors born of grit and grime,
Masters of this urban time.

But woe, ye rogues of furtive tread,
For morning comes, and fears are fed.
The broom will swing, the traps will fall,
A kingdom toppled, rats and all.

Still, as you scurry in retreat,
Know that your reign was far from sweet.
Oh rats, my tin-can's midnight bane,
You wear the crown of hunger’s reign.