The Shang Ridge abounds in tall bamboos,
Their verdant green connects valley and hill.
A rat is born among them,
Feasting without ever feeling sated.
Spring shoots it gnaws, raw rhinoceros horn,
Autumn culms it breaks, cold jade.
Glutted, it grows plump and fat,
Leisurely, freely multiplies.
Dense woods, kites cannot snatch it,
Deep burrows, dogs cannot chase it.
The phoenix starves, near death,
While it has not a single handful.
Only this bamboo rat,
Has a belly full of precious stones.
Warm, it plays in green shade,
Lifts its head, proud of swans and geese.
It does not know the folk of Shangshan,
Crave the flesh upon its body.
They have spades sharp at the edge,
And awls sharper than arrowheads.
Opening its hole, it's trapped like a prisoner,
Pierced through the chest, its cry like weeping.
Fat and blood still dripping wet,
They carry it to market to sell.
Bamboo is like the worthy and good,
The rat resembles the blind vulgar.
What it eats is not fitting,
The disaster it brings truly swift.
Alas, cunning petty men,
Seize the moment to steal the ruler's favor.
Noble, they rely on the shrine-tree god,
Salaries stolen from the state granary.
Flutes and reeds, sycophants' tongues sing,
Medicine and stone, good words lie hidden.
Morning sees them wield great power,
Evening hears them meet glaring execution.
Li Si suffered the five punishments,
Zhao Gao's three clans were wiped out.
Truly there is a Lord of Slaughter,
In darkness bright as a candle.
Let those cunning ones not harm the worthy,
Let those rats not eat the bamboo.