Three Blind Mice, by Diana Devlin

A toad once said to three blind mice,
would you like to come to supper?
Thank you, toad, that would be nice
but can we bring our brother?
You’ve got a brother? said the toad
but that’s not in the rhyme!
He’s there to guide us down the road,
he’s with us all the time!
Very well, the toad replied,
you can bring your brother with you;
the more the merrier, he sighed,
it’s really not an issue.
And so they dined by candlelight,
the five of them together;
it was a truly lovely sight,
and they all enjoyed their blether*.
We’re lucky you’re so kind to us,
the mice said to their host.
Why, thank you said the slimy toad
but I’m not one to boast.
The night’s still young so come with me,
he said in tones triumphant.
I’ve got a cure to make you see
and platters full of cheese abundant!
The mice could not believe their ears
and went into his study
but the fourth mouse, he was full of fears
because the carpet was all bloody.
Once in, the mice could not escape,
the toad had locked the study door.
He tied their brother up with tape
then nailed him to the floor.
I’ve got your treat, he grinned at last,
you won’t have long to wait.
The fourth mouse squeaked, “Get out and fast!”
but alas it was too late.
The toad cried, You are now my dinner!
It’s you I’ve wanted all along.
You’re number’s up and I’m the winner.
Don’t you hear the dinner gong?
The three blind mice stood terrified
as toad picked up a paperweight,
his evil features magnified
in the blood red fire light.
He brought the object crashing down
upon the mouse’s little head.
The crack resounded right through town
and the seeing mouse lay dead.
You horrid toad! the mice all cried,
your evil plan will fail!
You can run but you can’t hide,
you’ll go to prison without bail!

Now in a children’s rhyming story
the toad would be undone.
But life is sadly much more gory
(some say that that’s more fun).
And so the three mice died that night
and the toad enjoyed his feast.
The moon shone brightly on the sight
of a toad and four mice, deceased.

*blether is a Scots word meaning chat

Diana Devlin is a 54 year old ex-teacher/translator/lexicographer from Fife in Scotland. She has always loved reading and writing poetry and has had a little work published online and in print. She enjoys life in Dumbarton with her husband, daughters, Jack Russell and two bossy cats.


MARIE (who stole husbands and ended up alone) by Sherri Turner

The favourite sport of loose Marie who lived at number twenty three,
was practising seduction when she flirted with her neighbours’ men.
Her reddened lips would pout and tempt and no poor soul would be exempt
until they could resist no more and turned up at the harlot’s door.
When she had had her evil way they asked Marie if they could stay
but she just shooed them off before she moved on to her next amour.
The wives despised this piece of fluff and pretty soon had had enough
and so they all devised a plan to frighten off the bravest man.
The message first reached Toby Grey who, playing golf one Saturday,
found all his club mates in a snigger because his ‘niblick’ wasn’t bigger.
The next to hear was Jack McGrew who learned that everybody knew
how premature the consequence of his excess exuberance.
The worst was grocer Michael Stout, who nearly died when he found out
his customers were all aware his veg were not a matching pair.
The men soon found that all who’d strayed had had their failings well displayed.
They hung their sorry heads in shame and knew Marie must be to blame.
Despite the shortness of her skirt and fine ability to flirt
her efforts now were quite ignored. No longer was Marie adored.
She soon became a dreadful sight: her lipstick smeared, her hair a fright.
No company of either sex would anymore her threshold vex.

It’s rumoured that, on warmer nights, she walks the streets in fishnet tights
beseeching anyone to visit.
It’s no surprise they don’t, though, is it?

Sherri Turner lives in Surrey. She has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines and has won prizes for both poetry and short stories. She likes to write silly poems when she feels in danger of forgetting that this is supposed to be fun.