The soul, a poem, John Whitworth

The soul is like a little mouse. He hides inside the body’s house With anxious eyes and twitchy nose As in and out he comes and goes, A friendly, inoffensive ghost Who lives on tea and buttered toast. He is so delicate and small Perhaps he is not there at all; Long-headed chaps who ought to know Assure us it cannot be so. But sometimes, as I lie in bed, I think I hear inside my head His soft ethereal song whose words Are in some language of the birds, An air-borne poetry and prose Whose liquid grammar no one knows. So we go on, my soul and I, Until, the day I have to die, He packs his bags, puts on his hat And leaves for ever. Just like that.