Three Dead Mice

Do you know what makes no din?
Three dead mice in a biscuit tin.
Three very dead mice in a very cold tin.
It happened like this:
Bert gave Irene a Gorton kiss.
He didn’t miss. It was a very hard kiss.
We both got the chara to Blackpool
And Irene broke the general rule:
Off-season, off-colour, this is the rule:
You don’t wear shades in this resort
When nights are long and days are short,
They’ll think you’re just a bob or two short.
But still, we stayed well out of reach,
Haunting the empty Pleasure Beach,
Getting stung by sand on a big and lonely beach.
And back in my Woolworth’s biscuit tin,
The one I kept the three mice in,
The one I’d forgotten they were living in –
Lay three little bodies in the cold and the stink,
With their paws that looked so intricately pink
Curled in to keep warm, but so cold and so pink.
So I couldn’t help but make a din,
Returning to that biscuit tin,
With its stiff cold mice in their stiff cold tin.
The stink and the guilt and the childish sin
Stayed fresh down the years as though they were in
That airtight Woolworth’s biscuit tin.