A Christmas Poem for ‘Mouse
Last night I was looking through the one old box of “things I don’t throw away when I move” and found the little notebook my long-deceased grandmother gave me when I was a child. In it was this poem, attributed to my grandfather who died when I was about eight—thirty-ish years ago:
Monkey Business
Four people living in a house
Wake up at night, they hear a mouse
Nibbling away above the ceiling,
Gives them sort of a creepy feeling.
That alone is bad enough;
But I declare it’s really rough,
When one big rat is stumbling badly
While jumping and tumbling rather madly,
Chasing a tail which is his own.
I say, to heck with such a clown!
——————-
There is one other poem in the notebook attributed to him with the notation “To the boys from Grandpa H.L.”:
Guess What
Our animal is awfully clever,
It does what I shall never, ever
Be able to do by hook or crook
And simply can’t learn from any book!
How to walk with feet over head
Across the ceiling over my bed.
I tried it a few times more than many
But always and always land on my fanny.
Pray, what is the crazy critter called
Who hikes upside down so fast and bold?
I will tell you for sure for a jug of cider,
The name is Mr. or Mrs. Spider.
————————-
Other than my over-large Swiss nose, these are the only things I have from him.
I love that box that you musn’t throw away. I’ve got three or four of them now. There are no poems from my grandfather though.
They’re beautiful ‘mouse.
Posted by boot on 01/21 at 04:25 PM
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