A mouse was born inside a television,

That always seemed to tune to music stations,

He heard the songs of all the big-name artists,

And lived his childhood full of inspirations.

He wrecked a matchbox, made a grand piano,

Then taught himself to play and write with rhyming;

He found a fob watch underneath a book shelf

And used it for a perfect sense of timing.

With help from several pieces of computer,

And bits of toaster, clock and vitamizer,

He improvised and soon the house resounded

To music from his tiny synthesizer.

A drum kit from a bunch of bottle sealers,

Guitar strings from a golf ball he dissected,

An ice cream stick was carved into a Fender,

And soon, a mouse-sized amplifier connected.

The mouse’s fame spread far and wide so quickly,

In every rodent hole across the nation

Electrophonic rock from teensy speakers,

His CD “I Hate Cats” a huge sensation.

He grew his hair and started smoking cheddar,

Employed a Guru so his soul could capture

Nirvana and the love he’d always longed for,

One night a blue vein trip caused him to rapture.

He pointed his guitar up to the heavens,

And played a power chord that shook the rafters,

A million mice thought it was Armageddon,

And lay in traps to hasten their hereafters.

So after that the magic seemed to leave him,

His beard grew wild, unkempt and full of weevils,

The songs turned cold, satanic, full of anguish,

As Mousie tried to purge himself of evils.

He dropped his standards, turned to Mozzarella,

And shunned advice from those who cared about him;

He overdosed on goats milk, it was tragic,

And even die-hard fans began to doubt him.

His inspiration dried into a desert,

The faithful left, and he reacted badly,

One drunken night he fell into a rat trap,

And died as he existed – squealing madly.

A tragic tale indeed, but one to ponder,

If you are given talent, you should use it;

Be everything you can be, go for glory,

But never, ever think that you can’t lose it…