Young Dennis the dormouse was frightfully frail
And hated to hear a hinge squeak!
And should a door slam at the height of a gale,
He'd retire to his bed for a week.
A rattly old chain would give him a jolt
And he'd get wobbly knees and go pale
And even the sound of a softly drawn bolt
Made him cover his ears with his tail
So he searched round the house for a small can of oil
And a couple of sticks and some twine
Which he made into stilts, with much labour and toil
Now Dennis the dormouse is fine
For he's oiled the locks of each room in the house
All the bolts and the hinges as well
And everything now is as quiet as a mouse
What a pity he can't reach the bell!