If you want to visit the mouse that sings, you
just have to tread past the rocks and things,
past the tulips, daisies, and roses,
past the meadow and the shepherd that dozes.
Ask if you can visit the prince,
and then do your best to convince
and maybe his butler will hand you a trumpet,
or a nice round crumbly crumpet,
and say to you “go right ahead now!”
and show you along with a polite head bow.
Then you’ll enter a giant gold room
that has the most delightful perfume.
The smell brings you back the mem’ries of friends,
Images of relations come to an end.
After you take in the view,
you notice what’s right in front of you.
A tiny gray mouse all puffed up and proud,
but also humble and wearing a crown.
The prince will say “welcome my friend!”
and you have to pretend
that your nerves don't exist
as you bend down to kiss
the beautiful rings that lay on his knuckles
or when he inevitably chuckles
and says that there is no need
to be so formal, indeed,
he shakes your hand and takes you over
right to a small special corner
and asks you to take out the horn
that you had so patiently worn
around your neck for this very moment,
and then your hands come to hold it
up to your mouth and you duet,
the tiny gray mouse who puffs to get
a great gulp of air looking big and wise,
whose singing is more beautiful than a summer’s
sunrise.