The Mouse

As I lay down my pen, should I
Have never picked it up?
Should only those with skill write verse
While others dare not speak?

My tongue and mind are slow but still
My soul has treasures too,
It bids my tongue to prophesy
Though it be with but a squeak.

I write my verse in valid blood
Because it is my own.
I sing my songs with my own voice
My own authentic squeal.