Poetry

Mickey mouse, a very famous grandad at last at peace. 
His tired old bones, hidden in a secret chimney stack.
A witch turns a big pumpkin and six white mice into 
the finest gold carriage, drawn by six shire horses. 
We are always dreaming of that magic beautiful day.

A very loud tick-tock, tick-tock, of a large cuckoo clock, 
booming out noisily, disturbing the dark silent night.
Lurking when the kitchen lights go out, its time to play. 
To hear if a cat is purring, our arch enemy giving a warning.
Forever watching cat flap swinging, within a hostile world.

Hiding from the big nasty house cat, are all his friends.
Only daring to come outside, dancing about after it is dark. 
Flourishing they are adapting to all of the latest trends. 
Exploring in the durable shadows, like strange ghosts.
Coming and going rattling through them dish lockers.

A thrifty moonlight beam shines, on a yellow architrave.
Squeaking echoes, black droppings reveal our whereabouts.
Jump and skip, hurtling into the arenas busy nights. 
Annoying the cat, an evening moth gently taps at the window.
Speed nimble as a mountain goat, in the growing gloom.

Mice flying In and out of their little holes like yo-yo's.
Flirting slyly with their own reflections, in dresser mirrors.
A mystery of bewilderment, most strangely elusive. 
Living behind the labyrinth of old skirting boards. 
A passage following the pipes, traveling back in time.

Unreachable murky dank coal cellars, a sanctity within.
Time an eternity, behind the black burnished grates. 
Depths disclosed souls disappear, dropping into invisibility.
Cobwebs hanging from the joists, like condemned pirates.
Playing conkers with a black spider, in his diamond web.

He has got a shiny white coat, covering his pink skin.
He has little grey pointed ears, gorgeous glowing red eyes.
Also he has got a haunting shiny small black nose. 
The heavy scent of a nest made of newspaper pieces.
Their accommodation with places to have their litter,

Displaying the longest tail, you ever did fancy to look at.
His brothers and sisters, playing skittles with frozen peas.
When he has got a mad tormenting humble sweet tooth, 
sometimes enticed, by a forgotten saucer of vermouth.
Busy endless searching all night, to feed our appetites.

Hastening he is very happy, eating tomorrows dinner.
On a table lays supper, munching on a tasty toasted tea cake. 
Toiling and roaming, drinking cold coffee, with stale cheese. 
Never failing, he just loves licking mince pies at X-mas time. 
Last but not least, he willingly washes our dirty dishes.