I shook her out squirming
from the Live-O! patent trap,
well away from the house,
onto frosted leaves.
She was nothing but a shabby
reddish-haired starveling.

Just a stick-legged, miserable
Matchgirl of a mouse,
with bedraggled flanks where
overnight she'd peed herself
in the spring-shut plastic tube.
A far cry from a cuddly toy.

It was plain she was vermin
- an ill-bred, underclass
no-account mouse, who now
dimly gathered her wits and
crept beneath the rotting shed
of my claimant neighbour.

I wondered, making off,
how long she'd last,
and if Double Gloucester
would work that night
on her worthless relatives,
friends, or live-in lover.

If any such existed, and if she
wasn't simply a lone scrounger,
who'd napped in daytime
near the creaky meter
and ageing Hoover Junior,
fitfully cringing
below the stairs.