I bustle along the old wooden pews,
With their splinters of wood and rusting screws,
Scurrying, hurrying, sniffing around,
Searching for food in this haven I've found,
Food is so scarce, in God's humble house,
That's why I'm so poor, a lowly church mouse.

I run free down the aisle in darkness of night,
When no one's around, not a soul in sight,
O'er well-worn inscriptions written on tombs,
Into the transept and quiet little rooms,
Rooms where old cassocks are neatly racked,
And velvety hassocks haphazardly stacked.

No one comes into this church anymore,
The bells never ring - no one opens the door,
The choir doesn't meet for practice each night,
The old vicar calling is a rare sight,
It seems they've abandoned God's lovely house,
And I'm doomed to die, a lonely church mouse.