Ten Thousand Weasels

Ten thousand weasels in the walls...performing stunts and somersaults...avoiding notice every night, yet leaving little tire tracks...in ever growing numbers...they come and chew...they come to spy...they leave these little racing stripes...as dogs will do on clean white carpets...

Who are these weasels in the walls...or hidden...in the ceiling space...who leave no clue or nom de plume...and never never never ever...leave a comment...I do not know, nor can I tell...they enter in...they come and go...perhaps they find my little poems...tastey...

I wonder...don't I... maybe not...one never know's...nor groan nor grunt...they sneak on little tippy toes...as silent as a mouse...perhaps they are...or maybe squirrel's searching...on the internet...to get my nuts...why worry of such doubts...

Ten thousand weasels in the walls...looking...lurking...peeking...breeding as they read my things...and like's appear...and shares appear...like stockings stuffed by Christmas elves, with Santa...in his polyester leotards...ten thousand weasels in the walls...to thee I bow...

Thank you little weasels...I left some cookies out...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Weasel, by British Mammals 1896