Sinbad the Mouse



When he returned he wore a sailor's cap
And had a new, wild, rolling sort of gait.
Sunday mornings he would sit and wait
For eager micelings climbing in his lap
For stories. Ah, the wonders he'd relate
About the wind's voice filling canvas sails,
The mermice singing, all the happy whales,
The cheese that wouldn't sit still on the plate,
The mice that swing from branches by their tails,
And many others. He lived on dark rum,
Ginger, cheddar cheese, and bread. Never glum
Or moody, he would laugh and swig whole pails

Of grog and spin his wondrous yarns. We knew
He'd never been to sea. Who's perfect? Who?



© Kevin Berland, 1999


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