Dad trapped it, regardless, and soon saw results:
  Mouse blood on the counter, mouse guts on the floors.
  Mother cried foul! How she sobbed and she shook,
  And looked at my father, that pitiful look.

  "Fine!" Shouted father, and stomped with a huff.
  "Live traps it is! Now quick, with foodstuffs."

  The small cage was set, propped open with bait.
  Once again came a mouse, without knowing her fate.
  SNAP sprung the snare, and SQUEAK squealed the mouse,
  But to little avail! She was caught, without doubt.

  Our mother, she took, with a spin of her heel,
  That unfortunate rodent, outside, then she reeled
  And said, facing father, "Now, wasn't that kind?"
  "Indeed," mused my dad, but said little else.
  He seemed to be waiting, and biding his time.

  Sure enough, on the morrow, the mouse had returned—
  We could tell it was her, by her white-speckled fur.

  Dad threw pots and pans! But they missed, and she fled.
  Mom shouted some words, that might oughtn't be said.
  "That's it," yelled my father, "I've had well enough."
  "Tomorrow we set out our snap-traps again,
  And I think that we'll see, that mouse isn't so tough."

  Mouse blood on the floor, now to no one's surprise.
  Now Mom holds her tongue, and she closes her eyes.
  But tell me, oh please, what else can we do?
  Have mice in the house? Or worse! Give them food?

#notchildrenspoemsbyrob05c

Inspired by boredom on the light rail, and your poem evoking Conservative propaganda.