A gust of wind blows through my house.
I feel the movement of a mouse.
I thought that mouse had left my house,
But here it is, that little mouse.
It eats the pictures of my old flames,
Tearing them from their old frames.
It grows and grows and grows, oh my,
It seems that it will reach the sky.
What does this mean, I do not know,
But something this must go to show.