We had a little visitor,
his fur was brown and white,
He ran into our lounge one day
and gave the wife a fright.

He popped out of the skirting board,
and scurried 'cross the floor,
The wife has said she does not want
to live here anymore.

I said 'He was just curious-
a gentle little mouse'
She said, 'Then let him poke around
in someone else's house!

If he's not gone by Friday night
I'm going back to Mum's,'
I thought about it long and hard
and fed the mouse some crumbs.

I bought myself a humane trap
to catch my furry friend,
and placed it where I knew he ran,
so I could apprehend.

Next morning when I checked the trap
my little mouse was there,
I tried to pick him up but he
just zig zagged everywhere.

I took him to the garden shed,
where my wife never went,
My sanctuary from nagging voice
where happy hours were spent!

Went to the shop and bought a cage,
to keep my new friend in,
We got to know each other as
I taught him discipline.

The wife began to rant and rave,
when I went to my shed,
Suggested I should pack my clothes
and move in there instead.

I'd had enough, she drove me mad,
she tried to spoil my life,
That's when I went back to the shop
and bought my mouse a wife!

Needless to say, they got on well,
if you know what I mean!
Within six weeks the babies came,
I counted them - FIFTEEN!

Then five weeks later...more arrived,
I was inundated
Words In my book 'How mice can breed'
are very understated!

And so my master-plan was born,
I let them loose inside
the house that she had made her own,
since she became my bride.

I sat there in my male retreat,
and waited for the screams,
Sure enough, they deafened me,
but fulfilled all my dreams.

She didn't even pack her bags, she
ran back home to mother,
A pair of whingers - it was clear,
they deserved each other!

And me? I love it on my own,
surrounded by my mice,
It's great that she's not here to moan
it really is so nice.

I cut my toenails in the lounge,
walk bare around the house,
No one to nag, in fact, it's just
as quiet as a mouse!

Grandad sat staring down at his hands
deep in thought, in another place,
His thoughts were far away, in other lands
I sat by him, looked into his face,
‘Are you ok Granddad, you seem so quiet
‘I’m fine’ he said, ‘thanks for caring’
That life etched in his face, you couldn’t buy it
rubbing his hands, sitting, staring

“Have you ever looked at your hands?” he said
“I mean, really looked at your hands?”
I stared down with my fingers partly spread
thought about those playground handstands,
I tried to work out the point he was making
He looked, could see the confusion,
on his face a smile started, slowly breaking
he said, ‘forgive the intrusion’.

“Stop and think for a moment, look at my hands
though wrinkled, they were once my tools,
Life has slipped through them like shifting sands
but always we’ve followed the rules,
They’ve put food in my mouth, clothes on my back
as a child I’d fold them in prayer,
They’ve saved me from harm, kept me on the right track
pulled up my boots, put a comb through my hair.

They have been *****, raw, broken and bent
they shook as I held our newborn son,
They have covered my face in bad times I spent
but never once have they held a gun,
They trembled with love when I married your Gran
and when I walked your mum down the aisle,
Put bread on the table as a working man
In God’s house they allowed me to smile.

Today, when my body is racked with pain
they hold me up and keep me strong,
They’ll be there for me again and again
not knowing any right from wrong,
They’ll be folded when I no longer wake
but, more importantly understand
It will be these strong hands that God will take
as he leads me to the promised land.

Just six months later Granddad passed away
and his words came back to my mind.
As I knelt in the church clasped my hands to pray
for a man who was wise and kind.
Now I am old and grey with silvery strands
With my grandson whom I adore
‘Grandad, why are you staring at your hands?
and life’s circle begins once more.

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.