In the boardings of an ancient church
There lives an old church mouse
For many years within it's bound
He's kept it as his house

The hollow of it's entryway
Is set up on the stage
Situated closely
Where the sing and rage

You know that olden saying
Claiming mice are so so quiet..
Well, this one by exeption
Is a hamper of a riot

On every given Sunday
When the pews are jammed with members
The music from the orchestra,
Rekindles up it's embers

The tapping of unsteady feet
And clapping at the hands
Unfurls a groove, that can't be beat
That titilates it's glands

It promptly steps out of it's hole
And then begins to dance
The music thumping off the walls
Injects it in a trance

Watching as the elder folks
Do cartwheels down the aisle
Astonished how their trunks and bows
Could be so versitile

The pastor, hopping frantic..
Also frenzies up a sweat
While organ-pipes go blaring
Seetheing faster than a jet

It really digs the rhythm
Bouncing heavy off the boards
Admiring the splendor
In the music of our Lord

When everything goes silent
And the rows are left inhaling
The little mouse keeps going
With it's hinny swiftly flailing

Members file in order
When the service has completed
But, there is still one member
Who just doesn't feel depleted

Another Sunday passes
In the Lord's archaic house
And waiting for the next one..
Readies up the old church mouse