In keeping with a little more silliniess:
I am posting this chapter from the gospel of the Mouse in the Desert. It is well known and respected in the Animalia Kingdom. Though wee in stature, it words ring true for all heterotrophs that may read them.
I am a mouse in the desert.
I do not wish to be involved. The heat may be too much for my small constitution.
I am written in small letters, not in caps.
I carry a tale; but I do not tell them.
Now, be still. Be quiet. Before we are all found out.
The wind ripples the sands before the light of day.
The code of the highest desert seas, our code,
decrees if any of the ship’s mates, other than my very self,
were to speak his mind,
and cast his words and weights against the crew’s,
I would be provoked, and in being so, wearied of disruptions;
cast as captain of this desert ship (the rats did protesteth loudly),
I cannot not permit sailored mice (nee, men), existential
or otherwise philosophically oriented,
to ever this way disembark. Woof. Woof, my trusty pet replied
to language that he understood!
I, though, will not heed the call unless compelled.
And presently, the deeds were not of such a magnitude
as to require me to raise a passing eyebrow in concern.
The parrot felt the same way too, though he raised his.
The peg leg hit against the ship’s wooden deck
in perfect apposition to the pirate’s uttered words.
The session terminated in a row
grainy waves of amper sands storming the ship’s stern –
or was it aft, or bow, or prow, or maybe court of pall?
All this well-known from The Captain’s Logs;
Long-written in the ancient Book of Genital Laments,
revealed as gospel in the Old Testicles of The Desert Mouse.