A scuttle here, a scuttle there,
what was underneath my chair?
As a séance wasn’t made,
could not be a summoned shade.
Neither was it next door’s cat,
in the garden, getting fat,
nor a pipe, going clank,
Kev the plumber, I do thank.
Trinkets; lost, they don’t walk,
and sweet wrappers, have no talk,
so, what on Earth, could it be,
that made a noise, behind me?
I then chose, to move my arse,
to end such a little farce,
huffed and puffed, I moved the seat,
to tense rhythm, my heartbeat.
Result uncovered, a small two,
one was brown, and one was blue,
fear and stillness, warmth and ice,
were shown by a pair of mice.
The mouse alive, it ran about,
as I worked to get it out,
one whole hour’s what it took,
where finally; it slang it’s hook.
For the mouse, with no squeak,
I dug small grave, far from beak,
hoping that, it’s tiny soul,
could lastly meet, eternal goal.
With this said, such deeds did end,
I wondered if they’d made a friend,
whilst I sat, kicked off each loafer,
once I cleaned, behind the sofa.