The mice had been out drinking.
Their tails wove in and out.
They staggered up the piping
and fell off the down-spout.
They reached the airing-cupboard
and nested in the sheets,
they peed upon the bedspreads,
on towels wiped their feets.
Then leaving several pellets
of shit upon shelves (upper)
they hiccuped, belched and farted
and went to look for supper,
for as you know when drinking,
though lager fills your belly,
it also makes you feel as though
you’d eat a docker’s welly!
They fancied Ruby Murray,
but nothing could they find,
for in a decent bathroom
a curry’s naught but wi-ind.
So gnashing sharp incisors
and scraping needled paws,
they set about a drunken search
to find that bedtime course.
And when I rose at seven,
and flicked electric power
to heat the flowing water
and give a nice hot shower,
I found the mice had feasted
behind the cupboard door.
They’d shredded paper wrappings
and dropped them on the floor:
they’d punctured all the toothpaste
and then to top their tope
they’d guzzled anti-frizz shampoo
and eaten half the soap.
Then finally, hung over,
they’d made themselves at home
and sprawling bloated fast asleep
were snoring shaving foam.