If the plural form of house is hice,

you’ve found the rhyme to the world’s most destructive device.

Every element, stuff, and substance is gnawably attractive

unto him, including the poisonous, high-voltage, and radioactive.

All ninety-nine different kinds of just-brought-inside food

he wants because he never finishes what he’s chewed.

Alas, go ahead and check the box’s date-to-sell-it,

but home, shelve it once, and lift lid to stain and pellet.

Except one commodity it seems doth not him please,

and you know what I mean and where it’s set out cheese.

Help yourself, cock and lay out a string of traps

and it is mostly somehow just one shy of taps.

His brother, now, is mean and ugly but fatally fat.

I mean the Norway, the brown, or some other kind of Rat,

and the calm solution there is no harder to do

than warfarin or a kid with a brand new 22.

But when the mice really come to town?

No problem either. If it’s your house, burn it down.