From the Works of Edgar Allan Goose

As I sit here in my kitchen,

Noises set my old eye twitchen’.

Tiny sounds that I know I’ve heard before.

My husband out in fields a’ reaping,

Once again the vermin creeping

Slowly in the corner near the door.

Never found by guests or spouse

Is each tiny little mouse,

Coming out when I am hopelessly alone.

They’re not silent like the snake.

On the floor their claws do rake,

Scratching scrapes that always chill me to the bone.

As I see each creature smile,

And let out a laugh most vile,

I see more evil than suggested by their size.

Up from depths so dank and bleak,

Using smell and touch they seek.

Only blank holes left from what had been their eyes.

They take not much, on each foray,

And they always run away

Long before my husband’s working day is done.

I sit alone in sad lament,

For I’m the one they do torment.

Traces that they leave behind are slim to none.

Neighbors think I am insane,

When I cry as if in pain,

Chasing laughing pint size demons every day.

This has made my husband sad,

For he agrees I am quite mad,

And he’ll have me taken off and put away.

I will show them I am sane,

That they’re not born of my brain,

But it must be now before it is too late.

To the doctors I must yield,

When my man comes from the field.

I must prove these creatures or accept my fate.

So I’ll take my carving blade,

End this nightmare they have made,

Rid myself from evil squeaks once and for all.

Now the madhouse gents appear.

My husband gapes at me in fear,

As I plunge my shining blade down in the hall.

The mice are injured with the blow.

They crawl away to die, I know,

For their tails lay unseen bleeding on the floor.

A padded room, I’m taken in;

But on my face appears a grin.

For now the three blind mice will haunt me, nevermore.