The Typewriting Mouse

There lived a tiny mouse,
Who wore a hat and a jacket.
And to resemble Sherlock Holmes,
Kept a pipe in his pocket.

He used to live in a hole,
Which he’d burrowed in a house.
Where lived a girl with her parents,
Who were oblivious of this mouse.

This mouse was rather special,
He fancied himself  a writer.
And to complete the illusion,
He bought a tiny typewriter.

On the typewriter he poured,
He thought, his mind and soul.
But he really just recorded,
What he saw from his hole.

What the cook made for dinner,
While the mother wrapped herself in silk.
And how before the father came home,
The girl sneaked out with a bowl of milk.

The mouse didn’t ponder much,
Never wondered why the girl went out.
He had no time to pause his typing,
He had too much to write about.

He loved the sound it made,
His keys of his tiny typewriter.
The tap tap taps of his machine,
Made him feel like a serious writer.

One evening the girl brought home,
Three stray kittens mewling.
The mouse observed them from his hole,
And continuously kept typing.

The kittens heard the tap tap tap,
And their ears shot straight up.
They bounced towards the hole,
The mouse was out of luck.

The kittens pawed out the mouse,
And while it was squirming.
One of the kittens swallowed him whole,
Along with all his clothing.

The girl poured the kittens some milk,
In a shallow bowl set on the floor.
While the kittens lapped up their dinner,
The girl peeked through the mouse’s door.

Inside she could see the typewriter,
And lots of tiny sheets of paper.
The girl took them out and read them,
Then stapled them with a stapler.

She submitted them to a council,
Under her own name with pride.
The council applauded her efforts,
Even though she wasn’t bright.