Ode to a Mouse

It's been three weeks now; you're superior, I'll admit.
I've seen you and heard you, but you won't take a hit.
With each trap we've tried, whether glue or spring-type
You've dined at Chez Farmer's on PB and cheese—so ripe.

I remember the time you ran down our hall
Kayla was scared, but you were having a ball.
Rumor has it you hide in toasters, like bread.
I start mine each morning in hopes you'll turn up dead.

You gnaw and scratch and run within the walls.
Remodeling—with a flame-thrower—I feel is my call.
With one last attempt, some PB on glue,
The sticky buffet at Chez Farmer's awaits the frustrating shrew.