Fe Fi Fo Fum

What would I do if there were only one of me and not this raucous house on sky high stilts shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum rooster proud and peacock pitchy like Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs but many more mice, and they are all writing this poem from inside a giants eye? What if this was my last brew, last blow, last blathering? What if this was my last poem, unfinished, tragically abandoned because of some unforeseen poxy palsy that splits my cranium open letting all the air out? Would I be content, or bent backwards forever? No not content, not content at all, no indeed not. What good would high stilts do me then and how many blind mice must be beheaded in order to gag a never ending last breath? I think I smell some blood in a still chewing cud. What if this were the only poem in the world tattered, incomprehensible, and soiled as it is, why then, I would be just one, only one, and that would not do - not do at all or perhaps…