Mouse's Houses.
By P.B. Phillips
There once was a mouse
Who lived in a house.
With walls made from clod
And a roof made of sod.
Who dreamt of a home
In the Presidential Zone.
A palace, in gold, silver, and brass
Not an oozy mud ceiling all covered in grass.
And, He wanted under-floor heating to boot.
So, he saved and he slaved
All his holidays he waved.
Worked, til his paws were quite red.
And try as it might,
The sun never caught him in bed.
He was up with the lark
Industries bright spark.
Til his money piled high in the bank.
Now he was ready
His resolve was rock steady.
To find a fine vista
No opportunity he missed'a.
To locate his great hall
With no leeks at all.
Set in a landscape, fit for the Gods.
House, kennels, stables
all with matching end gables.
A mile long drive,
And gates 20 feet wide.
Garages for 10 cars
A place to rival Romanoff Tsars.
The grandest of grand country estates.
The furniture would be Hepplewhite
Block wallpaper elegant, and bright.
Halls of ornate gothic grandeur
Gilt rococo flourishes, to eclipse even Bambrough.
Grounds by Capability Brown would remove every frown,
from Visitors down from the town.
Dukes, Earls and Baronets
Would arrive with violins, flutes and clarinets.
To sup and dance all night
Under Chrystal chandelier light.
Glamour and gayety
From high priest to laity.
The parties would be the talk of the realm.
When it was time to egress
No lady in taffeta dress,
Would want to leave before dawn
Like a lonely Queens pawn.
Once proud young bucks
Would depart like old ducks.
The opulence would blow them away.
This was the mouse dream
His soul, his scheme.
But things don’t always go how you wish.
Things took at turn
As we will soon learn.
For 40 long years he had worked, saved and toiled.
But in just one day, all was totally spoiled.
His timing could not have been worse.
He invested all his savings the very same day,
The South Sea Bubble had burst.
Old now, alone, his health all gone.
Doctors tried to all that they could
But the blood didn't flow, quite as it should.
Mouse had ignored the joy in his life,
No time for friends, kids, or wife.
He realized too late
That fate was his mate.
Hubris was a terrible master.
Never had he joked, sang or learned how to flirt.
He gave his last lonely breath,
from a pillow of dirt.
In a home made from clod
And a roof made of sod.
This was HIS home.
Not in the Presidential Zone.
No palace in gold, silver and brass
Just a hole with an oozy mud ceiling,
all covered in grass.
And no under-floor heating to boot.