Monday, July 4, 2011




 Down by the woodpile
 Where we really ought not go
 Lived tiny little mice
 Whose fur was white as snow
 The mice they liked to squeak a lot
 As all mice like to do
 But really they were talking
 In words not known to me or you.

 They were chatting all about the ball
 For they did love to go
 They pulled the tiny carriages
 For fairies and elves, you know.
 Oh, how splendid in their uniforms
 Of silk, of shimmering gold
 It made even the shyest mice
 Become quite a bit more bold!
 Soon the night did happen
 The moonlight shimmered so
 A beautiful garden of flowers
 Was lit with a silvery glow.
 Fairies came from everywhere
 And danced the whole night long
 If you listened very carefully 
 You'd hear a sweet and tinkling song.                                                                     

 The morning came too quickly
 And all was cleared away
 No sign of the frivolities
 Was left in the new born day
 But if you went by the woodpile
 Where you really ought not go
 You'd see tiny white mice sleeping
 Dreaming of places yet to go.

  Crissouli© May 2007

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