Tragedy befell Louise of Littleville: her lover died of suicide, and yet she carried on as brave as any mouse could be.
The suitors came from far and wide, and each declared a blazing love that would abide, but sweet Louise, she cried and asserted stubbornly,
“I will not wear a buttercup for you. I will not dine on wine and cheese with you. I will not share my life with any other love. He worked his tiny hands unto the bone. He died despairing, wretched, and alone. I will not rouse my heart, ’til we reunite above.”
Poor Louise’s family, they shook their heads and pleaded ceaselessly, “Oh daughter, there is so much more to see in this fascinating world. Your nest is derelict and disarrayed. Alone you sit in darkness every day. It breaks our hearts to see your sadness, silly girl.”
“You didn’t care when he was still alive. You didn’t care to help us grow and thrive. You didn’t care; you calmly left it up to fate. We worked our weary hands unto the bone. We tried. He broke. He died. I’m left alone. You didn’t care, and now it simply is too late.”
“Oh my love, I’m sorry, sorry.
Oh my love, come save me, save me.
Oh my love, forgive my weakness.
Oh my god, it’s hopeless, hopeless…”