He felt it just before it was too late--
the ozone crackle running up his wrist,
hair rising on his spine--then like a Fate
his tiny rodent brain could not resist
the keys called out to him. Bare copper wire
curled its snake's tongue around the iron ring
and venomed it with lightning, its entire
circumference a trap ready to spring.
And who's to say that something in his head
(approaching Reason) did not see the Grim
Reaper couched there, and knowingly reach up
to take his hand? What future life for him--
the cage of this hotel, Aunt Martha's cup
No matter now.
Poor Whitey's dead.
--The Vicar of VHS
|Whitey meets his mousy maker|