Bob was a mouse, and he lived in our house.
He stayed in the place with my daughter and I.
It may make you pale when I tell you my tale,
But he just couldn’t stay – poor Bob had to die.
He looked kind of cute as he scampered along
Scouting the counters for nice crumbs to steal,
But a mouse in your cupboard is unclean and wrong,
His little brown droppings held little appeal.
“Besides” my kids heard, as I planned my attack,
“One mouse in the house will lead to much more!
Birth control is a skill they just lack
And a city of mice would become quite a chore.”
There are many ways to trap mice in our world:
Poison, and springs, and sticky stuff too.
I decided to go with the old fashion trap
That snaps little necks, with minimal goo.
I figured they wouldn’t suffer that way,
Just wanted them gone, without being rough.
I was nothing personal, I hasten to say,
They just had to stop taking their dumps on my stuff.
The project soon started out, with a bang
As I baited my traps with plain peanut butter.
They kept tripping too soon, gave my fingers a pang
Which taught me how many bad words I could utter.
By then my kids had started to name them,
While agreeing we still had to cut off each life.
There was Bob, of course, and a small one named Jim
Roberta, his sister, and Sheila, his wife.
But Bob, we concluded, was fooling around
With Sally, who thus produced little Bobbette.
It seems Sally had come from the wrong side of town
To find our meal crumbs, which she very soon ett.
(Give me a break, I’m not Shakespeare.)
So the whole sinful group, from youngest to old
each living it up like a real party mouse
would soon be dead bodies, stiffened and cold
leaving me, the killer, in control of the house.
It was just minutes later, after hiding each trap,
When we’d sat down to have our evening meal
We jumped at the sound of a very loud Snap!
My scheming had worked: One trap, one kill.
Old Bob died that day, and he wasn’t alone
Bobbette went next, with a blow to the back.
A better mousetrap was what I had shown;
It had all the patience and speed that I lack.
Roberta died in the kitchen, not making a sound
The trap in the living room soon claimed Jim
The basement got George, who weighed nearly a pound
I still don’t know who was related to him.
Sheila died then, without ever meeting
The shameless hussy who’d messed with her man.
Not that it mattered – Sally’s heart stopped beating
When she met her end behind the trash can.
Little Bobby was next, and he was the last.
It seems that the family had all been wiped out.
My Terminator days could be put in my past
No more jumping with shock at the glimpse of a snout.
I can’t really say that I miss them that much,
Though naming those things may have led to a tear.
But that’s all over now, no more mice in my lunch,
So I’ll hang up my traps – at least till next year.