There is a grey street in a town that is filled with dour grey houses
That houses women like mice, who think twice before disagreeing with their spouses
Who share the same houses but act like louses feeding on the weakness of their women and telling them to be quiet and mouse like
They might strike unless their spouses act like the mice I’ve already mentioned twice
So, the women just squeak and try to be good, just like good wives should
But one has a pen and lives close, maybe ten strides from a post-box
The post-box is big and red and begs for the rest of the street to step out of its grey and join it in colour someday
But grey the houses that house the women like mice remain
The one with a pen, dreams of when she will leave, she rolls up her sleeves and thinks of walking away, just going one day
But then she thinks of the man who might strike and goes back to being mouse like
But the idea nags away and she thinks of the pen and a postcard she could send from that very red post box, mail to the man she is leaving. tell him she has left this grey street, filled with it’s dour houses
She would end it, 'wish you here, dear'
Then he comes home to the house with the mouse and strikes the mouse like spouse and breaks her pen and then there is no dream only an extreme red post-box, empty on the street complete with the mice and the men.
She won’t try that again.