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In the cupboard, near the cheese,
sits a mouse, down on his knees.
Nibbles with much haste and pleasure
from the medium Cheddar treasure.
Unbeknownst to that small mouse,
Tomcat Tom lives in the house.
Whiskers homing in with skill,
almost ready for the kill.
BANG, the door flies open wide,
no place to go nowhere to hide.
Now the cat jumps on the mouse,
ripping her white cotton blouse.
Never mind, the end is near,
and I personally fear,
that the blouse will not be worn,
(even if it were not torn) .
Cat is happy now and dining
after a last second whining,
mice are eaten head to tail,
that way they're fresh and don't go stale.
Another matter is the cheese.
The mouse had begged the cat to, please
just let her finish her last meal.
But most cats look at mice that kneel
in front of cheddar with disdain.
So, pleas like that are made in vain,
as do frank bribes and tiny tears,
they fall on stoic feline ears.
The mouse has disappeared from life,
now Tomcat takes the cheddar knife
and cuts himself a hefty wedge,
consumes it, sitting on the edge.
His ancestors were Gallic cats,
those are the ones that chase big rats.
In France it is considered wise
to eat some cheese before you rise
from any meal, to make strong bones.
They serve it in cold pewter cones.
Thus Tom, to follow the tradition,
has two big helpings on this mission.
And, in the silence of the house
he wipes his lips with the torn blouse.
Herbert Nehrlich
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