The moon’s a holy owl-queen. <br />She keeps them in a jar <br />Under her arm till evening, <br />Then sallies forth to war. <br /> <br />She pours the owls upon us. <br />They hoot with horrid noise <br />And eat the naughty mousie-girls <br />And wicked mousie-boys. <br /> <br />So climb the moonvine every night <br />And to the owl-queen pray: <br />Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees <br />For her to take away. <br /> <br />And never squeak, my children, <br />Nor gnaw the smoke-house door: <br />The owl-queen then will love us <br />And send her birds no more.<br /><br />Vachel Lindsay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-grandpa-mouse-said/
