To our mouse

To mark Burns night, I'd like to dedicate one of his most famous poems to the mouse currently living under our floorboards. Your days are numbered, mate.

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beast,
O, what a panic’s in thy breast!
Thou treat our larder like a feast.
Yet always start awa sae hasty
As well you might, for I will chase thee,
Till thou art deceased.

(And thanks to BernardPoet for the mouse's reply).