So take my body, dear Weasel My flesh I give to you to rend My blood I give to slake your thirst So that the violence may end.
You shan't take my heart, dear Weasel Though my body be forever dead My heart lives on in yonder wood And souls of those who march ahead.
We will not fear you, dear Weasel The smallest of us will heed the calls To fight with love and strength of heart Until the day the Weasel falls.
[An old poem that I never got the hang of polishing. Sung by the warriors of a race of mice, who march in defence of their homeland against the dreaded Weasel.]