Whilst sitting in the saloon bar of a very ancient pub in the village of St Nicholas, Kent, England, with my brother Alf and our two wives several years ago, I spotted a tiny brown mouse emerging from a hole in the wainscot and scuttling around. I said, “A mouse” whilst lifting my feet from the floor. Everybody in that full bar with the exception of us four, left the room rapidly, and from that moment on I have been given the unfair reputation of being scared of mice. In an attempt to rid this image of cowardice of those lovable little creatures, I decided with poetic licence to turn myself into one, or at least be their public relations officer and write a poem about one of them.

By Len A.Hynds

Herbie was a brown mouse,
and he lived inside a church,
High up in the rafters,
was his favourite perch.

He sometimes went to services,
Shining-up his coat.
He scared the lady organist,
pulling faces in a gloat.

He was so partial to candle wax,
and the communion wine,
but being a true mousey,
not particular where to dine.

He frightened little spiders,
by saying to them, “Boo,”
and in alarm, they’d scuttle off,
not knowing what to do.

He’d wait until the choir-boys,
were sitting in their places,
then stand up right in front of them,
and pull some awful faces.

When they all laughed,
and the vicar with his frown,
fast approached with his clouting stick,
he hurriedly dived down.

But weddings were his favourite,
the ones he liked the best.
He’d just pop up at random,
and try to scare each guest.

The nervous ones amongst them,
would then let out a shriek,
whilst Herbie sat there laughing,
at his dreadful cheek.

He really was a menace,
Although he’d lots of fun.
The wardens never caught him,
because they couldn’t run.

But a sharp eyed lady cleaner,
saw him scuttle down the aisle
and she got him in the hoover,
with a most unchristian smile.

But Herbie’s spirit still wanders,
in that hallowed place,
but now he’s been converted,
there’s a halo above his face.