Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
Of Mice
I have heard a thing in nature
very strange to see,
and this involves a mouse.
A most certain kind of mouse;
I do mean 'un.'
Most certainly, it is 'un,'
but I digress.
Back to this mouse.
The mice all come together
with a weak one in the center,
and they squeal.
A most painful, high pitched squeal.
The one found in the center soon expires.
Unlike the weak hen
in the yard,
it is not pecked.
Without a single, solitary mark
the mouse expires.
There are people in the world
not unlike this mouse -
or should I say, these mice.
Well.
I am very glad to say
that I am not
a mouse.
Do not
be
a mouse.
© D. Winter
February 22, 2008
