Young Writers Society

Wee,sleeket,cowran,tim'rous beastie,
O, what a painc's in thy breastie!

At me,thy poor,earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

Small, sleek, cowering, beast
how we panic!
You don't need to run away so quickly
With bickering rattling
I'm told to chase you
with the murdering paddle

I'm sorry you have
broken Nature's social union
and justify your bad opinion
which makes you shocked
at me, you poor mouse,
and fellow mortal.

I doubt that, while, but you might steal
What then? little rat, you might leave
Ah, then man, just a small request
I'll get a blessing with the lathe,
and never miss it.

The little house, too, in ruin,
it's silly ways and the winds have tossed
and nothing, now too big and new
of foggy green
And bleak December winds ensue
to tear it down again[?]

You saw the fields laid bare with waste,
and weary winter coming fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast
you thought to dwell
till crash, the cruel bludgeon
dragged you out of the place

That little heap of leaves and sticks
has cost you many a nibble
now you're turned out for all your trouble
but house or hold
to thaw winter's sleety rain
and can rock cold

But mouse, you not dead
and although foresight might be useless
the best laid plans of mice and men
can be useless
and leave us not but pain and grief
due to the promise of joy.

Still you are blessed, compared with me
the present only touches you
but Ugh, I looked backwards
towards the bad things,
and forward though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.