To the house mice, to the royal visit,
I have nothing better than my poem.
It is not so very pretty, is it—
but it’s all that I can truly show them.
And the mice prefer it less than kings do,
for at least the court can mock a singer.
Still, I’d rather they be ears to sing to,
dumb silence is better than a stinger.
But they won’t come here, not to where I am,
the mice have holes, and royalty their throne.
I have my hole too, but my evening plan
is drinks for my songs and for me alone.
And my throne is a cold, hard kitchen chair.
No guests nor galas, nor mere house mice there.
~~~
Our coat of arms changed colors fairly oft,
with changes in the season, or the year;
and while for a long time they had been soft,
pastels and with florals were replaced with fear.
For when the jester came home from the war,
he picked up his court cap and made a song;
but nobody knew who the song was for,
and nobody knew where it should belong.
And mourned they for the loss of his old gift,
the one he even now purposed to give.
There was, between all eyes and ears a rift—
one that would last as long as they would live.
The banners were now colored a deep red:
the color of our arms when one was dead.