Gruyere-Some Squeals Are Heard, I Hope

“Classical chants royal were typically used for weighty themes, but can get ponderous in a hurry…” Jerry H. Jenkins

When summer peaks and days start turning short
 and wainscots creak and the blooming mouse does that,
 comes blooming out as I take my first snort
 of the morning, cor, I’m off to buy a cat.
 A great large cat with eyes like rancid peas
 and whiskers curling up so he must sneeze.
 He’ll grab that mouse and gobble him with haste
 while his brows recede at the truly horrid taste
 of the tail and toes and bit that was the brain.
 He’ll chew and smack till nought’s left but some paste
 and seaside sparrows shiver in the rain.

When Ma Mouse whelps, it’s too late to abort
 and her litter lands with giggles, squeals, and splat 
 and I drop the book where I’m reading of young Wort
 and the dog gives chase and Ma runs out the flat.
 But a nonagon staircase catches her lice and fleas
 that flee as she runs, and cold flue makes them freeze
 and Anon’s won’t grow up if he dares to waste
 his chance to steal and grows up a pantywaist
 who won’t gnaw cheese while the cat’s deaf from the train
 that rumbles by while the polled fleas fall unplaced
 and seaside sparrows shiver in the rain.

Now a mouse or twenty scarcely make a quart
 but unlike gerbils you can’t keep them in your hat
 because housebroken’s not what they’ve been taught
 and they’re naught but midget mirrors of the rat.
 As a midget rat with a squeal and rickety knees
 who weasels on debts and often cops his pleas,
 Anon’s not cute and it’s high fun to lambaste
 his hide and catch him hopping, hot, shamefaced,
 with his rat snout shining through the window pane
 where clouds reflect how hares are oft more chaste
 and seaside sparrows shiver in the rain

Old Anon’s author is a poet who can’t be bought
 or I’d offer him a drop and invite him in to chat
 of the cricket and whether he thought Botham ought
 to have gone to Cape Town and taken his turn at bat,
 not that I care about old histories
 but he might forget to write mice, and I’d tease
 for a flatman story, or a barge pole to impaste
 that bleeding mouse with. No, I’m not two-faced
 and I want my satire dark and that he’ll abstain
 from mousing while the heavy stuff’s disgraced
 and seaside sparrows shiver in the rain

A burger-queen kit-kat mouse house can’t be fraught
 with rooms where royal chants can get to bat,
 so rodent cultures are what we must thwart
 to make our Weaver write a requiescat
 or other work to take in hand our kidneys
 or make sly fun of what’s begun (bard, please!).
 I dream a dream, with cats, of how a whey-faced
 mouse of some repute is banished, Samothraced
 not to return because out there there’s ratsbane
 and whips ensuring mice get steeplechased
 and seaside sparrows shiver in the rain

O Weaver! Weavers! Help Anon get aced
 so Wimbledon and cricket can regain
 our oh-so-small attention spans. Let pain
 pan-fry the mouse until at last he’s plaiced
 and seaside sparrows shiver in the rain.