On the fourth shelf behind the flour,
A mouse returns on every hour,
And feeds upon the golden stream,
Sweet and sticky like a dream.

And small round gifts he leaves for those
Whose syrup drips, and I suppose
That he’s expressing gratitude.
Tough some may think it rather rude

To relieve oneself upon a shelf.
Though you would do it, you yourself,
If toilet trained you never were
And your tiny body covered in fur.