Oh, give me a loam, I may easily call home,
And the sun is not spotted all day.
Where seldom will roil, more than two feet of soil,
And the layer beneath me's not clay.

Loooooam, loam on the range,
Where the mice and the prairie dogs play.
I'd be greatly hurt, should you steal all my dirt,
And my snout would show only dismay.

I just got a new MoleP3 player!

Just remember: Eagles may soar, but moles don't get sucked into jet engines.

No, not that kind of mole. What do I look like, a mole-enoma?

You've confused me for a pile of beans; I count for much more.

If I've told Mohammed once, I've told him a thousand times: I refuse to commute.

People keep making fusses when I'm in the area. I don't get it.

I have aspirations of one day becoming a mountain.